The Glory Days Are Over
by WarriorLoverInc
Summary: A Demon following him around just might be the best thing to ever happen to Jonathan. (Sockathan gang AU)
1. Chapter 1: 99 Cent Life

Also on AO3 and Tumblr. Inspired by and for Stariceling.

* * *

It was a tiny thing, cylindrical, the print yellowed and faded. In his hand it was heavy and cold, and the glass fogged when he brought it close to his chin in an attempt to see the design better. The X was nearly rubbed into oblivion, but for something at the back of a thrift shop shelf it was in pretty good condition. Hiding a thumb in the cuff of his hoodie sleeve he gave it a quick wipe, hoping that the brown tint was just dirt, and sure enough his thumb cut a clean line across the glass. He grinned quietly. Finally, some luck.

A chin on his shoulder and the accompanying voice. "See something you like?"

Jonathan jumped, nearly losing his find in a tumble of fingers, but caught it close to his chest and glared as best he could. "It's nothing."

"If you're taking the time to look at it then it can't be nothing."

He shoved it back on the shelf with a twinge and walked away without saying a word. At the end of the aisle his hands found the empty pockets of the lambskin jacket over his hoodie, felt the lint and sand at the bottom.

Footsteps, then Sock nudged his shoulder. "I'll buy it for you."

"I don't need you to buy me anything," he grumbled.

Sock's hand appeared with the glass, a bright yellow 99¢ sticker on the bottom. Jonathan was silent, jaw tight. He'd seen the price, he didn't need a reminder.

A resigned sigh. Footsteps faded behind his hunched back, distant chatter near the front of the store, then Sock's shoes stepped back into Jonathan's vision. He finally looked up. There was a balled up plastic bag in Sock's hand, protecting the fragile thing within, and a smile on his face.

"Hey Jonathan, when's your birthday?"

"December."

Sock glanced at the verdant trees in the dark out the store windows, but didn't look deterred in the least. Jonathan accepted the ball of plastic with a frown.

"Happy early birthday. Let's scat."

The garage was four stoplights away. It wasn't anything impressive. In fact, if it weren't for connections it would have been condemned and torn down long ago. Whoever let it stand had none of Jonathan's love, because the place was a drafty piece of shit with an infestation and a weak toilet, but it gave him a roof over his head and a spot out of sight on the street. It didn't belong to him anyway, it was Blacksheep property. He didn't conventionally pay any rent. As long as he fixed shit and ran errands for other members nobody cared that he crashed there. And that was fine by him.

They weren't going in yet, because as usual Sock was getting caught up in something else.

"Let's get... unprofessional." The dim streetlight accented the curve of his mouth, the glow in his eyes. Wind from a passing car tousled hair across his face and shook the crooked tail of his hat. Puddles and discarded cans reflected the warm neon tones of the dance club across the street that rippled the water with each pound of the bass.

He wanted to hold him again, rest a chin on his head while they dozed. Quiet. Uncomplicated. Something so simple, so rare. He wanted more. But he couldn't have it.

He looked to the wet asphalt and ground a cigarette butt under his heel. "You were never professional in the first place, Sock." Biting his lip, grinding harder. "No. You can go, I'm going to stay out here."

The smile only grew larger. "Oh come on, Jonathan. I know you want to."

Jonathan shook his head at the ground. He wanted a lot of things, but not to be caught with Sock. "No, I don't."

"You never do anything but lean against your motorcycle and pretend not to care." His pulse quickened as Sock took his hand.

"I don't care," he insisted while trying to resist the overwhelming urge to spirit them both away.

A bark of laughter. "You care about me."

Jonathan's face grew red. "Well―"

Before he knew it they were at the door, and then inside. Wafting sweat and alcohol filled his mouth and he blinked ill-adjusted eyes in the strobe light before noticing Sock clinging to his side, practically bursting with excitement. His mouth moved and he turned to Jonathan for a reply. They realized at the same time that nothing could be heard over the music, and while that brought a grin to Sock's face, Jonathan's mouth fell to a tight line.

Sock cupped his hands around Jonathan's ear and moved his face close enough that lips brushed his skin. "You worry too much."

Despite his fears Jonathan found himself turning to surround Sock, tingling with the mingled warmth. "I worry enough for the both of us because you're so goddam reckless." Sock's amused huff was like gentle fingers trailing across Jonathan's neck. "What if someone sees us? You're supposed to be killing me."

Sock leaned his forehead against Jonathan's and looked deep into his eyes before stealing a quick peck on the lips. "Aren't I killing you?"

Breath hot and quick against cheeks painted with embarrassment, Jonathan tightened his grip on Sock's shoulder. "Not in the way they want."

"Neither of our groups leave their territory," Sock assured. "Just for tonight, let's not hide, yeah?"

A popular song began and the walls nearly cleared as people crowded the dance floor. Sock bobbed slightly to the beat while Jonathan pressed against the wall and watched him. The boom under his skin was surely the bass, and the stars in his vision the flashing lights. Dancing was not his thing. Nothing was really his thing, except maybe mechanics. Sock was, without a doubt, crazy. He always wanted to go dancing, maybe catch a drink. This was a decidedly more neutral zone of Blacksheep territory, but Jonathan was jumpy when it came to public displays of affection. They were harder to explain away. People might see, might dig into it, might realize Sock was trespassing. Aside from the threat it posed to Sock's general well-being, it also made his position between Demons and Blacksheep precarious. Loyalties were exclusive. Anything seen as betrayal would not only spark outright aggression between the gangs, it would also undo whatever he had. His bike, the garage, his protection, what little cash flow he had. All of it was arguably unnecessary, but something about Sock made him want to at least look like he was trying.

Maybe he wouldn't care about any of this. But then again, this was Sock, one thing he didn't want to lose. He watched the swaying tail of his hat, waved as he gestured from the dance floor with a blazing smile. A pesk, but _his_ pesk.

Jonathan had finally began to bob his head to the beat, shoulders loose, one foot against the wall, when the door burst open. He recognized the body language and scars right away.

"'Just for tonight,'" he growled. Why the fuck would the universe work with him?

Sock appeared out of the crowd. The newcomers shouldered and pushed their way through, leaving a trail of indignant bodies in their wake. Jonathan was luckily shielded by the sheer amount of people.

"You should hide," Sock said, pushing him towards the bar. "I can try to talk them down."

"I dunno, Sock. They don't look very friendly."

A wry smirk. "You act like I don't deal with them all the time."

Jonathan threw his hands in the air. "_Fine_, fine, but if one of them even lays a hand on you―" He was interrupted with a tasty pair of lips.

"I'm sure you'll beat them up." Sock shoved him one last time.

The bartender gave him a funny look when he crawled behind the barricade, but didn't say anything. He had noticed the intruders too, and looked more worried than anything, turning down drink requests and jumping to a phone on the wall every few seconds without ever dialing. It wasn't until the music screeched to a halt and the space filled with an over-capacity of protesting dancers that he worked up the nerve.

The meanest looking newcomer's grin warped a huge white scar on the left side of his face. He did the speaking, spitting ugly syllables onto the nearby patrons.

"Fiiiive minutes! Five minutes and this place blows." In the strobe light and silence his smirk was almost a monster of fangs. He hefted a gallon of fluid in the faces of the poor people who hadn't been able to back away into the press of bodies. "And anybody that sticks around blows too."

The silence ruptured as panic set in. People trampled heads and limbs trying to escape through the single little door. Eyes wide and breath panicked all the voices raised at once, and Jonathan, stuck behind the counter with a sweaty bartender hopefully on the line with police, was too late to join the stampede. Shit.

"Hey guys." Sock's voice was tentative. "You're not usually around these parts."

"Sock!" Whoever this was didn't sound so bad. "I should say that for you too. What brings you here? This is Blacksheep turf, yeah?"

Sock laughed nervously. "I just like the dancing. As long as I keep my head down I don't upset anybody."

The bartender scrambled to hang up the loud receiver. Fucking idiot got noticed. Footsteps approached like gunshots on the ground. The bartender whimpered. Wood groaned as someone leaned on the counter. Jonathan squashed as far into the tiny space as he could.

"Four of your best." He could practically hear the slimy smirk.

The bartender rushed to comply. Somewhere in the background Jonathan could hear Sock making light conversation, even forcing a laugh. Mostly he was praying Scar didn't lean too far over the counter.

"So who were you callin up there. Friend of yours?" Sipping noises. Then a grumble. "Your best is shit." Alcohol dripped off the counter, some of it into Jonathan's hair, as he dumped it out. He didn't wait for the bartender to try to defend himself.

"Well sir," he almost sounded mournful. "You heard what I said. Five minutes or you go up too. You're still here." The glass shattered against the bartender's forehead and he dropped like a stone, one hand laid across Jonathan's foot.

"You'll thank me in hell," Jonathan heard. Footsteps walking back to the others and the clink of the glasses. Splashing sounds as they tossed it around, and then the snap of a lighter.

"Hey," Sock tried, sounding desperate. "So you really want a fight with the Blacksheep? Has Mephistopheles approved of this?"

There was an uncomfortable silence before Scar huffed. "Don't matter what the boss says, he ain't done shit expanding in years, too busy with fucking 'renovations' to the gang." A chorus of 'yeah's from his cronies. "Sides, a lil punk like you only get around on good looks. You won't squawk." A rough sound, like yanked fabric, and a squeak. Jonathan bristled, imaging his dirty hands jerking the scarf around Sock's neck like a noose. "_Right?_"

"R-right..."

The bartender's hand was cold where it brushed Jonathan's ankle. A mess of footsteps trooped out the door, and he waited in silence. Sock had left with them. He peeked over the counter, then undid the latch to the small door in the side, painfully dragging the man through broken glass and towards the back entrance. They got out just in time. At his heels, flame danced around the room in place of human patrons, following the trail of spilled liquor. The bartender took an unfortunate tumble into a pile of trash bags once they were in the shadow of his alley across the street, but Jonathan couldn't carry him anymore with his noodle arms. He just hoped the guy hadn't kicked the bucket.

The fire was quick and rough with the old, no doubt barely legal slump of a building. Mortar and brick crumbled and the roof caved as smoke and light belched out its orifices. The group of Demons stuck around long enough to see the rafters tumble, and in their wake the fire and police department arrived. Late. As usual.

The radio would later report 'escalating gang violence' and 'no loss of life'. Which was great and all. But Jonathan knew the implications were worse than what the average civilian could parse. The Blacksheep were not large or particularly powerful. They had some tenuous alliances, but no one would dare help them against the Demons.

Sock melted out of a shadow, linking elbows, tone worried. "Jonathan? I'm sorry I couldn't make them stop."

Jonathan just shook his head, enveloping Sock. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said quietly, and Jonathan felt the hand he raised to his throat.

He didn't know what to do with boiling rage.

Sock stayed over that night, curled up in the creaky old dump of a bed in the curtained section of the garage with Jonathan. Just mingled breathing was what they needed. Both of them were, to say the least, pretty freaked out after the dance incident, and so they stayed in bed well into noon. When crisp knocking came to the garage's hollow metal door Jonathan cracked open an angry eye. Who fucking felt the need to ruin his day already?

He tried to get out of the bed without disrupting Sock, but found that he was already awake, and he just rolled into the covers with a dismissing wave, quickly asleep again. Once he was sure the curtains wouldn't show that he was bedding with a member of rival gang, Jonathan removed the huge deadbolt lock and glared through the gap, blinded by the sun.

"What?" he snapped, hoping to scare them away.

"I'm looking for Jonathan Combs." The voice was feminine and sharp, ready to stab if needed.

Debating the consequences, Jonathan opened the door a little wider, shielding his face against the sun. When he could finally see again his mouth dropped. He definitely shouldn't have opened the door. Hair the same color as his undercut, blue eyes, the same nose. It was his sister, Queen Overachiever.

The door inched towards closing again. "Aren't you supposed to be in college?"

She stuck a foot in the slim doorway and forced her way in. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?"

He backed into the garage and his silence was all the answer she needed.

She sighed, face drawn with worry. "Do mom and dad know where you are?"

"If they do, they haven't bothered to haul me home for dinner," he spat. "Listen, I see what you're trying to do here, but you have no idea. So just go."

Her perfectly painted lips pursed. He bloated under her gaze, projecting the _All OK_ signals that would make her leave him alone. Clean clothes, washed hair, aware gaze, tall stature. See, everything was fine. For a moment he thought he had won. She dropped her head with a resigned slouch and shoved a hand in her pocket. But then it emerged with a nest of crumpled paper, and she pressed it into his pride like a punch.

"I don't want your money," he growled.

"It's not money." She dropped it into his hands, and he glared when he realized her lie. Nestled like a thief in the crumpled ball was a greasy slip of paper with a phone number and address. "Well, it's not _all_ money. Come by sometime, Jonathan. I'm family, and I know that might not mean much to you, but I want to be there for you."

The rejected papers fluttered to the stained concrete. Bangs fell over his eyes as he shook his head. He didn't watch her leave, but the door ground open and closed, a car started, and an hour later he still stood in the dim light, examining the bills and the paper, the peace offering. There wasn't anything he wanted in family. All he needed was right here. A roof and a packet of cigs... and Sock. The glass was still in his pocket, a fragile bulge of thrift shop treasure, heavy with the imprint of his smile. Her gesture was useless with what he had. No use focusing on what he didn't.

He stowed the pile in a lock box anyway.

* * *

It was a sweltering morning when they first met. Everyone sane was in air conditioning, old farts and idiots were dropping dead of heatstroke, even the toughened sidewalk weeds, full of spikes and hate for every foot that crushed them, had given up and turned limp as cooked spaghetti on the sizzling pavement. Despite every warning on the radio he was outside in his usual three layers, taking a smoke in the shade of an empty children's playground castle. The air was silent and thick and threatening to burn his lips right off. The smoking probably wasn't helping, but a day like this wasn't going to put him off his habit. A few drops of sweat on his neck and that was it. What was everyone panicking about?

Jonathan first noticed the hat, just as insane as his black lambskin jacket in this heat, and then the skirt, but who was he to judge. Last was the blood, which was a bit of a surprise, given that he had a baby face and stature sure to trip up any mother. It was deep maroon, new, and in a few large splotches across his limbs and torso. No visible wounds, it probably wasn't his. This wasn't exactly the most friendly area of the city, but it was Blacksheep territory and therefore fairly tame compared to the poor people stuck under the Demons or Angels. So blood, while not uncommon, was not usually overt on someone that looked like they belonged in a Saturday morning cartoon.

The stranger settled on a swing, rocking and creaking but not really getting into it. Jonathan thought that maybe something had happened to him, maybe he was mugged or lost, and considered putting out his cigarette to see if he needed any help, when the swinging stopped and their gazes very purposefully met. There was a smile. Jonathan just took a longer drag and squinted. He wasn't sure if it was surprise or suspicion he was feeling. Hard to tell with someone so off putting.

Swinging again, a rhythmic creaking from the metal badly in need of attention, and still a smile, though a little worn as Jonathan's silence stretched on. He rolled the cig between his fingers and watched the stranger with a calculating glare, appreciating the cloud of cancer that momentarily broke their eye contact. Of all the freaks to be out on the day the sun decided to persecute the Earth it was this one. After a quick glance at his dwindling smoke he threw it onto the tarmac and stomped. Fuck it, if he wanted to start something, Jonathan had nothing to lose.

He sat on the next swing, feeling the burn through his jeans. "You're covered in blood."

The swinging stopped, but the smile unfortunately did not. "I know! Isn't it great?"

What a grin. "Don't put the sun out of business, kid."

Jonathan got an amused glance. "Do you know why I'm here?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

"Think." The stranger tapped the side of his hat.

Jonathan shook his head.

"The Demons. You said no."

That was right. Nearly two months ago, recruiters had slunk through their territory, converting a few Blacksheep. "Converting" wasn't really the right word for it. It was yes or death. Nobody from their area had any real worth, but disposable foot soldiers were always needed with Demons and Angels. Smaller gangs were wise to sacrifice whoever was targeted, otherwise they risked total annihilation. Jonathan had been one of the No'ers. The shocked Demon couldn't seem to process his deadpan expression in the face of death and Jonathan managed to walk away clean. He didn't tell the other Blacksheep and kept an eye out for any signs of Demons encroaching territory tags, but no moves had been made. He wasn't sure what to expect. But it sure as hell wasn't this.

"What do you have to do with them?"

"I'm a hitman! I'm supposed to kill you." Smiling again, sharper. "You can wait a bit. I just got done with one."

Jonathan wished he had a cig to looked disbelieving and pensive with. "You look like a Disney reject and you're telling me you kill people?"

"Nobody expects a guy in a skirt."

He really needed a long drag to process that one. "No, I guess they don't."

The cotton air was thick with quiet and screams as the so-called hitman began to swing again. Jonathan licked his cracked lips. What should he do? He had expected some sort of retribution, but he hadn't thought of how he would deal. It didn't really matter to him what happened. Wasn't like he had anything going for him. But whatever way he framed it, death at the hands of Mr. Sunshine wasn't happening. While he was reluctant to fight, he would if he had to. Not that he could ever see this kid putting up anything near a fight. He had kind of undermined himself by telling Jonathan his intentions right off.

"Hey!" From above, then before, as the Demon's swinging intensified. "You don't seem very scared of me."

Jonathan scoffed. "Of course not. Should I list all the nicknames I've given you?"

A laugh. "I love nicknames! Just call me Sock."

As it turned out, Sock really sucked at his job. He trailed Jonathan around for a week, even after he sped away on his bike. The Demon would wait until he eventually came back to the garage and then bug him for every detail. He made it seem like he didn't need sleep or food or washing. The bloodstained ensemble he wore the day they met was still hanging off his shoulders and hips. Jonathan managed to push him out the door every night with a negligible twinge of guilt. Any weight on his shoulders evaporated when he unlocked in the morning and there was Sock, sometimes with a few new bloodstains, always grinning. One day he managed to find a hidden way in, and then Jonathan had to deal 24/7 with inane and often gruesome chatter. Sock was polite enough to at least leave him to sleep. Jonathan began to wonder after the seventh day if there was even any intention to follow through with his statement from the first day.

"Of course," Sock had said in a, dare he say it, reassuring voice. "I don't have to do it right away. It's not like you're an active threat to the Demons in anything more than reputation, maybe." He smiled, and much to Jonathan's dismay, it echoed in his chest like a good puff. "Besides, I like you. Most people are scared. And just because I'm a Demon, too."

"I don't care," Jonathan grumbled. And the next morning, with Sock gone somewhere, at 1:00 am, to the wall: "I don't care."

He really liked that smile.

Fuck.

The Demons were notorious pyromaniacs with fatal ideologies and initiation ceremonies that guaranteed only the most ruthless any positions of worth. When they didn't get what they wanted, they burned something, preferably whatever it was they had been denied. The 'I have it or nobody has it' sort of thing. To join, you only had to start a fire, the bigger the better. And while most gangs wore colors or symbols to project allegiance, Demons bore scars. Burn scars. 'Baptized in flame' was what they said.

Jonathan hadn't made it his business to know any of this, but that was before he started making out with a Demon. It's a real scare to be feeling someone up and then suddenly there's a huge knot of scar tissue under your hand. Sock's mark is large, kind of oval, at the base of his ribcage. Raised and rough and white. Whenever his hand happened to be trawling by the thumb rubbed carefully around the edges and he frowned. It must have hurt. A lot.

A boring, hot day had lent Jonathan's attentions to curiosity. Only his dirty off-white t-shirt graced his upper body today. He fiddled with some parts of the radio on the floor, wires and screws and pliers on the shattered cement before his crossed legs. Sock shifted behind him, dozing against his back, and sneezed. Pollen allergies. Jonathan fiddled harder. There wasn't any money to buy meds from the CVS down the street. He felt inadequate. Seeking distraction, he remembered his parents, or lack thereof, and was suddenly struck with Sock's age.

"Sock?" A quiet hum in response. "Don't your parents wonder where you are?"

Hair tickled his neck as Sock shook his head. "Did I tell you about my initiation? I burned down my house."

A wire slipped out of his sweaty hand. "Okay, but your parents?"

"They were in the house."

It took him a few moments. "Oh."

"Mephistopheles took me in. He's a pretty cool guy when he's not busy threatening someone. He said that I remind him of himself, and that he likes my 'gumption'." Sock's head rolled. Their backs were soaked with sweat, not that it mattered. "Jonathan, what's 'gumption'?"

"I'm the wrong dropout to ask."

The hook of wire finally caught around a bolt and he used the pliers to tighten it as best he could. It felt kind of dumb, but the chatter and tune of the radio helped fill empty space in the garage, and a similar space in his chest. Or maybe it distracted his thoughts of psycho Demons and Sock's scar. The signal had been really frothy lately, and it gave him something to do, so he stripped it down and enjoyed the presence at his back while rebuilding it.

Freaky, violent. The Demons were built on a foundation of chaos. Rumor had it that long ago the Demons and Angels had been the same gang. Something happened, some split in the leadership, and now they just existed to make the others' life hell.

Blacksheep turf began at a buffer zone where Demon and Angel activity mingled, often with bad results. In comparison to the two dominant gangs, they were practically handing out roses on the streets. None of them were particularly vicious, and they didn't seek conflict. A lot of the members were high school dropouts and twenty-something's considered disappointments to their parents. Small time thievery and light drug trafficking was their business. Other gangs considered Blacksheep a live barricade protecting them from the Angels and Demons, so no one ever fought them for territory. Aside from the occasional scuffle with an agitated Angel or drunk Demon, it was pretty peaceful. Just errands and broken machine parts and Sock suggesting yet again that he seek to become a Demon. Jonathan wished for those days back.

* * *

The crooked alley door slammed behind him, and he made his way to the overflowing dumpster pushed against the opposite wall. The bartender was gone the day after the dance incident, so he assumed that meant the guy was still breathing. Next to the dark, crumbling garage was a rusty old diner. All neon and lights late into the night, a dented stainless steel exterior and shiny booths upholstered in red marching across the huge windows. A real 50's feel, almost _Nighthawks_ if it had been in a neo-apocalyptic neighborhood. Its fumes made living on one meal every two days difficult, but he'd discovered one grudging night that a backlog of burgers and fries built up each day and they dumped all that good food around ten when the shifts changed. Ridiculous amounts of waste. It was always in the same black garbage bag, and he could just slice it open and fish a few clean, hopefully warm slabs of meat from near the center.

The lid of the dumpster was open, but he could see that no fresh bag had been tossed yet, so he lit another cig and sat on the low step of the garage's side door to wait. Sock had gone somewhere to report to his boss or finish another hit. Something like that. He ate with other Demons, and didn't seem to notice the growling of Jonathan's stomach, which was how he wanted it. Didn't need him worrying over something stupid like that. The glass in his pocket was already a tiny amount of debt.

Jonathan pulled it out, balancing the cig on on lower lip to free up both hands. It had cleaned up nicely. It was a shot glass with a heavy bottom, a collector's edition piece from his favorite band, a small grunge group called Valhalla Soundbox. The five band members were printed across the glass in varying states of rock ecstasy, superimposed by their logo. He only heard them through the spotty radio on a station he didn't like, but listened to because the disc jockey occasionally threw them on. There were probably savvier fans who would have killed for the little thing in his hand, so while he was upset that Sock felt the need to get it for him, he couldn't help the little swell of joy between his shoulder blades. It almost made him want to smile. Almost.

His head snapped up when the door across the alley banged open. A bent back and draped apron ties were in the opening, and when they straightened he watched her flop of tied hair, which was dyed purple. She turned and threw a bulging bag into the dumpster with a strained grunt. Their eyes met for a short, judging moment. Then she went back inside, the door clicking behind her.

After a moment Jonathan made his way over and was just beginning to tear the plastic when the door opened again. The girl was watching him with another bag over her shoulder and wide eyes.

"_What_ are you _doing?_"

He backed away quickly, her eyes burning his cheeks. Dirty clothes and sharp features. Caught like a raccoon. Her brows steepled.

"Were you going to eat that?"

He chomped on his cig and lied. The grill behind her hissed and his stomach echoed against the bricks.

"At least wait until I'm done."

The bag joined its fellows and the door clicked as she went in again. Jonathan settled onto his step, taking a calming drag, color high on his cheeks. When the door opened he stared at the cracks between his feet, but he didn't hear the smack of a new garbage bag. Instead, the dumpster lid snapped closed, and when he looked up she was gone and there was a paper plate balancing soggy french fries and a double-stacked condiment-free burger. He stared from the step for a minute, wondering if it was a hunger-induced hallucination, but when he stood and picked up the plate it was all still there. A cold crispy bun, two patties thoroughly soaked in fat, and a handful of fries gleaming with salt granules. The plate shook as he considered dumping it. He didn't need anybody's charity, for fuck's sake he was a man on his own. But the garbage was looking less appetizing by the minute. Eventually he dropped the cigarette butt and sullenly ate a few fries. No need to waste good food.

He planned it better the next time, waited until well after anyone would have taken out the trash, which sacrificed the possibility of lukewarm patties. To his great dismay there was a plate again, the fries and double burger, this time with a leaf of lettuce. Feeling ready to go Hulk, he gulped it all down and threw the paper plate at the diner's door. It made a dull thunk, and then the door inched open. Her face peered out at him, eyes observing his drawn brow, and then she opened it all the way.

"Come in." When he shook his head and backed away her lips pursed. "I can make you something fresh." Beyond her, in the kitchen, in the light, something sizzled and panted, and a blender whirred to life.

He walked away.

Despite his mental protestations, the plate of food kept appearing, sometimes with an additional side like a cookie or chips or a huge pickle. It felt weird to eat regularly, and he skipped more than one of the plates, in part to settle his churning stomach, but also in the faint hope that she might take it as a sign of rejection and stop. She didn't, and one night in the alley, his breath fog without a cig, staring blankly at the full plate on the icy dumpster lid, she opened the door again, just a crack, and he looked her straight in the eye. She tipped her head, then let him inside.

It looked just as picturesque and worn on the inside as the outside. The tile was squeaky clean, the counter and tabletops slick, stainless steel winding its way across pale linoleum and the sides of the red booths and stools. Though it tried its best to recall its original charm, spots of vague rust and warped marks made it clear that the building's glory days were over. Shoulders hunched and hands hiding in his jacket, Jonathan took a tentative seat at the edge of a stool, watching the girl kick a mop bucket aside behind the counter. It was empty save them. He wasn't sure if that made him feel any better.

"What do you want?"

Jonathan just shrugged, determined to speak as little as possible. In the light he could see a rectangular name tag pinned to her apron, the flowery font spelling out 'Lil'.

Lil _hmmed_, frowning. "Okay then, what you usually get."

She walked around the barrier between the grill and counter and it was quiet excepting the hissing hotplates. In record time there was a warm steaming meal in his face and a mug of black coffee in his periphery.

"I can't pay for anything," he admitted uncomfortably, fighting the blank hunger in his head.

"Doesn't matter," she pulled up a stool behind the counter and played with the cap of a salt shaker. "You see how much we throw out at the end of the day. You're doing us a favor, actually eating some of it fresh."

He poked a warm fry. "Won't your boss be angry, hearing you've been feeding a tramp or something?"

"God no, Providence wouldn't care. She might even be happy."

"Your boss's name is Providence?"

"Nah," she shook her head, still looking at the salt shaker. "If you don't call her Prov you call her Miss. I don't think anybody knows her real name. Bet it's something embarrassing, like Gertrude, or Betsy."

He munched quietly on a fry, ravenous for the burger, but oddly full just looking at it. "Providence is the name of the Angels' boss, you know."

She laughed, a nice sound, and looked at him through her bangs. "Are you trying to tell me you think my boss runs a gang?"

An embarrassed shrug. Who knows?

"Well I sure hope she doesn't. Angels like to string people from rafters, I don't get paid enough for that."

The conversation stopped once he finally began with the burger. It was _so_ _good_ fresh cooked, juice all over his tongue and the heat warming him from inside. He hadn't really noticed how cold it had become outside, but as more feeling returned to his body his fingers buzzed with the roiling acid eating at his stomach walls and soon all the food was gone. Lil had picked a mop up and begun to clean behind the counter and near the grill. She returned to find him clutching the coffee mug with a pensive frown.

"Hey." He looked up at her. "Do you need a job?"

He looked down at the coffee again. There wasn't really an answer for that.

"Prov is a nice lady. I'm sure she'd let you on. You live right across the alley, you could just pop in from time to time and clean or flip a few burgers, it's not that hard."

"Look." He pushed the half-empty coffee back to her, pretending he didn't see the disappointed line of her mouth. "Thanks for the food and everything, but I'm just fine. I've got other... _things._ Going on. I couldn't work if I wanted to."

She didn't stop him as he made his way to the back door, but he did honor one request.

"At least tell me your name."

He stopped just outside the door and ran a hand through his hair. "Jonathan."

Sock was gone for two days. Jonathan paced around the shop and wandered restlessly along the tagged line of their turf. If anything had happened to him Jonathan was at the point where he would find a nice fast bus and either lay down under it or hijack the thing straight into the nest of those Demon fuckers. When he did finally show up again, unscathed and cheery as normal, Jonathan gripped his shoulders.

"I've got to move, Sock." Too much was happening in this area. His sister somehow found him, the diner next door with food and Lil was singing a siren song, and the attack on Blacksheep territory was literally across the street.

"Okay," Sock said calmly. "Where?"

"I don't know, I don't know... Maybe it's time I visit Zack."

Zack Melto, the leader in this area, the guy that leant him the garage. He was always bringing his bike in and complaining about one thing or another (_"It makes a funny noise."_). There was never anything wrong with it. Jonathan dealt with it solely on the basis that the guy was football-huge and had control over his roof. Sometimes he came by with a pack of cigs and just made awkward conversation. If Jonathan wasn't such a loner he might have appreciated it.

That night he dug trenches in the concrete with his feet, circling around the support pole in the middle of the space. Sock sat on the bed and just watched him, flicking his switchblade open and closed with a _shink_ so familiar it was almost comforting. Eventually he fell asleep, but Jonathan just crouched in the dark, a finger in the dust, head in a world of sisters and red upholstery.

The next day he was at the diner. He turned down food and instead picked up an apron.

* * *

She gestured to a mark on the chart, ignoring Sock leaning curiously on the counter.

"Here is where you put when you get in and out, just the time. Lie if you want, no one cares, just don't take advantage, because Prov will find out, and you _really_ don't want to see what happens then." Some red pen in the margins. "These are the busiest times, so if you want to be useful you can pop in around then. Somebody else comes in at the same time as me, Jojo. Well, usually the same time. She's a little delinquent."

Jonathan nodded ditifully. Lil's was the graveyard shift, 9:30 pm to 1:00 am, or however long she could manage. It was a 24-hour diner, which meant it got some interesting characters. Like Sock for example, who was sipping a soda and absently spinning his knife on the counter.

"Does this mean you won't be around much, Jonathan?"

Jonathan shrugged. "It won't be too bad. I can pay you back for the glass."

"I don't need any pay back. I'm going to get so _bored_ without you," he whined.

"Go kill someone or something, isn't that what you get paid to do?"

"What?" Lil's head popped out of the kitchen, brows raised to the ceiling.

"Nothing," they said in unison.

"You could get a job here too?" Jonathan suggested once Lil had gone again.

Sock shook his head on the counter, still spinning the closed switchblade. "I can't. She said Jojo works here."

"You know her?"

"If it's the same Jojo I'm thinking of, then I don't want to get face to face with her again." He noticed Jonathan's guarded expression and sighed heavily. "You kill two pets and suddenly she holds a lifelong vendetta against you."

"Hm."

"Yeah, and I bet she joined the Angels just to get at me. She was initiated even before I was. Last I heard she's doing pretty great, getting all that energy out on, I dunno, whatever poor unfortunate souls manage to get in her way. Old people, probably. And she's a cat person now, been luring all them out of Demon turf just to get at me. Joke's on her, there are still squirrels and dogs and raccoons and stuff."

Jonathan had tuned out long ago, used to Sock's vague background chatter, and turned back to his boyfriend when he sighed and pocketed the switchblade.

"I'll come back later, Jonathan."

Jonathan picked up his glass. "You didn't finish your soda."

A group of girls filtered through the door as Sock tried to leave. He just shook his head and waved a hand. He didn't want it.

The day went by fast, and Jonathan found it surprisingly easy to manage the grill and take orders at the same time. The diner's menu was pretty limited, just your staples: burgers, fries, coffee, soda, cookies, sundaes, and some specialty items that were mostly pre-made and in the fridge. Lil showed up as the sun set, told him he could break or even leave, but he just put on another brew of coffee and continued to man the counter. A herd of officers came in around ten, which had Jonathan jumpy and nervous that they might see into his head and arrest him. They didn't of course, just gossiped about the fire across the street and chugged several gallons of over-sugared coffee. Then they left a generous tip, and suddenly Jonathan was having conflicting feelings about the popo.

That Jojo girl made a show late in the night, eyeing him suspiciously and forcing Lil away from the grill. Lil took a stool and wiped sweat from her brow, looking positively exhausted.

"I'm trying to save up for college, ya know?" The bags under her eyes were darker than her coffee. "But it's so hard, I've been spending most of it on other things, like food and school supplies. I've got hardly nothing."

Jonathan shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. "It's great that you know what you want to do though."

"Yeah..."

"You could always join up!" Jojo's voice struggled around the hissing of fat from the grill.

Lil puffed an amused sigh. "I'm too busy doing homework to join your little gang, Jojo."

A scoff. "_Little_ gang."

He had to agree with Jojo on that. Lil must be too busy to fear the gangs controlling their area too.

Things carried on like that for awhile. He ran irregular shifts at the diner, angsted alone in the garage, continued with errands and mechanical jobs for the Blacksheep, but eventually he burned out. His first paycheck came with a note that told him to take a few days off. This Providence character hadn't shown her face while he was around, and he still didn't know her name. The check was simply signed 'Providence' and when he took it to the bank they accepted it without question.

Sock became less a feature and more a guest. When Jonathan wasn't looking, the smile dropped and his face filled with something akin to the fire his boss was famous for. He knew Jonathan wasn't ignoring him on purpose. He was just caught up in the whole job thing. The novelty would wear off eventually...

He flicked the blade open and closed. _Snick_. _Snick_.

Everything ended eventually.


	2. Chapter 2: Lost Little Lambs

The leaves were roasting with midnight cold and the sun took to tucking in early. Lil was gearing up for school and warning that she might not work as much. Jonathan waved her off, it was okay, he and Jojo could handle.

"Don't you have school, Jonathan? You'd be in my grade, right?"

"I'm a dropout," he said in flawless deadpan, pressing another patty into the grill. "Going nowhere fast. No use wasting my time."

"That's a depressing attitude."

"Well, it's the truth."

Lil didn't say anything to that, just folded up her apron and shrugged into her bulky green jacket. The clock ticked past the 1:30 mark. A car sped by in the early morning dark, and Jojo was quiet at the counter. Jonathan palmed a fresh packet of cigs, feeling restless. Sock had been really absent lately. Even when they were curled up together it was like there were chasms between them. For the past week he'd been contemplating taking a vacation. With all the money he made he could finally bring him on a proper date, maybe get him something nice in return for the glass. A whetstone or something. What do you get a hitman?

"Hey, Jon!"

He leaned towards the barrier's window and waved to Lil, who was halfway out the front door.

"Lay off the 'rettes for a bit, yeah? You'll be going nowhere even faster with one of those between your teeth."

He laughed. Fat chance. "Careful walking in the dark!"

The door snapped shut behind her, and the empty diner was silence. Jojo came into the kitchen and pulled up a stool at the prep counter, leaning her chin in her palms. He remained standing, eventually hopping from foot to foot. Worried. Always worried.

"You're Blacksheep, right?"

He looked sidelong at her, the one with a violent grudge against Sock, the Angel. "What would you do if I was?"

"Nothing." Her gaze was straight out the door.

"I am."

She cocked her head. "Their abbreviation is BS because they're bullshit."

"Are you going to say anything constructive or should I just leave for the night?"

She turned her gaze on him, eyes like chips of ice. "Just be careful what you do around Lil, boy."

They didn't say anything after that. After an hour with only one customer, Jonathan marked his time and crashed into the empty bed of the garage. Instinctively he left a calculated space for Sock. It was cold and empty, Sock nowhere to be found. He laid a soft arm across the space, too tired to feel much more than the drop of his stomach as his head hit the pillow. Things were getting better, but they were getting worse. He closed his eyes, pretending there was a warm, breathing back pressed against his chest. Something was up. Tomorrow he would begin the vacation. He wanted to bridge the chasm with Sock.

The next morning he geared up to request the vacation. Everything was good, until he noticed the crowd of Blacksheep. From the alley he watched them pick around the ruins of the burned building. There must have been nearly twenty of them, all with grim faces and violent hands. The bartender was there too, sitting on the curb with his head in his hands, explaining something to a girl with a notepad. He gestured across the street, and Jonathan tried to duck behind the dumpster, but it was too late. A pair of feet crunching over gravel and then he was face to face with Zack.

"Hey, Jon," he said carefully.

"Zack."

Zack looked uncomfortable, but also angry. "The bartender says you were in there when the Demons came. You pulled him out?"

Jonathan nodded, looking at a spot over his shoulder.

"You didn't report anything to us."

"No."

"Why not? It looks a little suspicious, Jon. People are talking."

Jonathan forced a harsh laugh. "If you're trying to work this into a betrayal, you of all people should know I hate the Demons more than anybody. Why the fuck would I help them?"

"I don't know. I just..." He deflated, chewing his lip and looking at the garage. "Maybe you should move. It's going to get nasty around here soon."

Jonathan shook his head. "I'm staying." Then he sighed. Might as well give them something. "I do know one thing about this. I overheard the Demons talking. There were only four, and they don't have the go-ahead from their boss. This is a solo thing." He watched Zack's face loosen up a bit. "The one leading them was some guy with a big burn scar on his left cheek and a real nasty voice, like he's got a cold."

Zack threw a thumb over his shoulder. "Mind telling Hannah that?"

The girl with the notepad. He agreed, did his thing quickly, then hid out in the diner, shoulders nearly hunched over his head at the counter like a timid turtle. Jojo was in, finishing up a stack of burgers for a customer in a booth. When she approached him and balanced a cup of hot coffee on the back of his head he glared at her from between his bangs, risking burns if he moved.

"Jojo I'm not really in the mood for this right now."

"I am." She swung her hips side to side, hands behind her back. "I see the Blacksheep are swarming."

He dropped his forehead to the counter, feeling the mug wobble. "They're trying to figure out the Demon attack."

"See you all in hell, I guess."

"That's not encouraging."

She shrugged, finally freed him of the mug. The door burst open and a family of four took a booth. Once they were served she was back again.

"I want to take a vacation." He gripped the mug with cold hands. "Who do I tell?"

"Just write vacation in your time slots and leave."

Jonathan's mouth slanted. "This Prov chick really puts a lot of faith in you guys. Does she ever show her face? It's like believing in God, yeesh."

Jojo glared at him a little. "Prov is the best boss a shitstain like you could ever hope to have. She has her ways to keep people in line."

He just took a burning gulp of coffee. "Whatever. My vacation starts today then."

The spots were marked and then he slunk back to the garage. Sock was still nowhere to be seen. Feeling worried and a bit empty, he dragged out his bike and revved it up. Like everything he owned it was a pile of junk, held together with electrical tape and trust. It was pretty reliable, and no one thought to steal something that looked like trash. He didn't use it often on account of needing to pay for gas, but with a wad of paycheck in his pocket he motored up to a Sinclair and filled it almost to the top with no small amount of satisfaction. Next to Sock, this job was looking to be the best thing to ever happen to him.

Tank full and pride swollen, he browsed around the city shopping district. He ended up with a package of cards, a new blanket, a bar of soap, two packs of cigs, some breath mints, and a bulk bag of beef jerky. It all bulged out of the basket strapped to the back of the bike, but there was one spot left empty. He still needed something for Sock.

He parked himself on a streetside bench to think. The jerky was good for gnawing, and he sat there even as a freezing rain took a dump down his back. Some cars splashed by as clouds drew across the sun, and one of them slowed to a stop dangerously close to his bike. He glared at his reflection in the tinted window (and damn did he look a mess), but dropped it when the glass rolled down.

"Sock? Where have you been?" Behind him in the driver's seat was a familiar scarred face. "...and who are you with?"

From the passenger seat Sock smiled, shaking his head at the worries carved across Jonathan's features. "It's okay, they're cool." Scar shot him a thin grin. Sock climbed out the door and waved to the Demons within. "Thanks for the ride guys!"

"No problem, Sock." They roared away, leaving a grinning Sock and frowning Jonathan covered in dirty water.

Sock looked to be fine, maybe even happier than usual. Water dripped off the soaked edges of his hat and he rushed to give Jonathan a sopping hug. It was hard to remain upset with Sock's warm aura, so Jonathan dropped whatever quarrels were on his mind and gave him a squeeze back. When they pulled away Jonathan wiped a flaking splotch of blood off Sock's cheek.

"Do you ever wash off? Or do you just like walking around covered in blood?"

"A little bit." Sock gave his lashes a sultry flutter. "You should help clean me up sometime."

Jonathan laughed, then shut him up with a kiss that lasted a little longer than he had intended, not that he was complaining.

"You want to go on a date tonight? Like a movie and food, the whole shebang?"

"Yes!" Sock threw his arms around Jonathan's neck. "Let's see _Blood and Guts II_!"

A huff. "Why am I not surprised."

While he didn't have a gift yet, he supposed that could wait. They went back to the garage, Sock wedged between the basket and his back on the bike. He fought with his hair for a bit and popped a few mints. Assorted purchases were laid across the workbench in the garage, and Sock rummaged through some of them with approving noises. Especially for the blanket, which was heavy and soft, much better than the old moth-eaten thing they'd been using. He was zipping up his jacket in the alley while Sock finished something inside when the diner's door flew open. Like a deer in the headlights he froze for a moment, but calmed down when he saw it was just Jojo, looking fierce, but panting and shaking.

"Have you seen Lil? She hasn't come in for any of her shifts."

He shook his head slowly.

Her steps smacked the ground like thunder. "I swear to god you miserable piece of shit if this has anything to do with you—"

"Hey hey wait." He backed away with raised hands. "Just call her or something, she said she'd be busy with school coming up. Don't blame this on me."

Jojo's fists shook. "I called her! I called and it rang and it rang..." Suddenly he had a faceful of apron. "Cover my shift, I'm going to find her."

"She's probably just doing school stuff!" he called after her running back. She didn't pause, and he was left alone in the alley with a cloud of unease. He couldn't take her shift, he had a date. Jojo was prone to blow her top pretty easy, and he was sure she would get to Lil's house and find her passed out over an application. There wasn't anything to worry about.

Sock appeared in the garage's side door. "Ready?"

He looked down at the crumple of apron. "Yeah..."

The rarely used _Closed_ sign hung crookedly off its suction cup in the front door. He shut off the grill and the lights, pushed drawers back into place, slid unused food into the fridge, then locked the front door. In the dark the old linoleum looked empty without feet, the booths and stools cold maroon. Jojo's apron found its peg. He stopped on the step, seeing the dumpster and his door from Lil's perspective. Dank, cold, dark. Really pathetic. The lock made a clean _snick_ and he pocketed the keys.

He had a date.

The movie was about as gory as the title implied. Not much of his attention was spent, just some nodding whenever Sock took an excited breath and a small smile when he laid his head on his shoulder. Thoughts of Lil were safely far away by the time they were seated in _Biaggi's Ristorante Italiano_. They shared a huge bowl of fancy pasta and he splurged on some dessert covered in mountains of powdered sugar, which got all over Sock's face. The best part was the sweet kissing afterwards.

They biked back through the dark, Sock wrapped around him, smiles flashing in the streetlights, wind biting their cheeks rosy. His wallet was lighter, but he was full of food and affection. The cold chasm was gone, or at least bridged. Nothing could knock him off his high. This was better than even a cig. Almost on the level of those sweltering days of peace.

Even the radio was on board. When he flicked it on, Valhalla Sounbox blasted its way out of the grainy speakers. Sock grabbed his hands and swung around him like a maypole and though Jonathan still wouldn't dance, he smiled and laughed and pulled him in for a kiss. It was still sweet from the sugar. It probably would have continued past the end of the song, but the DJ took the air with a grim announcement.

He didn't pay it any mind until the description began. "...female, 5 foot 6, artificial purple hair, green coat. Last seen yesterday in the Stony Marsh neighborhood, 1:30 am."

Sock bit at his throat with a whine. "_Jonathan_."

"Shh, Sock." He pushed away, stomach churning. "That's Lil. Lil's missing."

Sock flopped on the bed, tugging at his sleeve. "Lil doesn't matter."

"Of course Lil matters! She got me a job, she's my co-worker."

"Can't we just keep kissing? I thought you didn't care."

Frowning, he leaned onto the bed and pulled Sock's hat off, planting a kiss in his hair. He squirmed and gripped at Jonathan's jacket, but he prised the hands off gently. The mood was gone. "I'm sorry, Sock."

As he turned his back there was a frustrated noise and the groan of a body rolling across the bed springs. Quiet. Jonathan paused at the door. He didn't want to leave Sock, he wanted to go back and finish what had been started. Wanted the perfect evening back. A glance over the shoulder yielded Sock's curled back and mussed hair, hat on the covers near his head. He looked at the floor, chest heavy, then left.

He didn't know where Lil lived. For a few minutes he just leaned against the front door of the diner, forehead on the cool glass, hands in pockets, conflicted. _Closed_, said the door. It was empty, dark, lonely. The cold and fear sent an electric current along his skin and jump started his thoughts. Maybe he didn't know where she lived, but it was in Blacksheep territory, and he had a few friends.

Zack and his usual posse were outside the thrift shop on ninth street. Loitering, leaning against things. Shadows with gleaming eyes. Crouched like a pack of hungry cats. Jonathan parked his bike next to a tree in the sidewalk and hurried towards them, cutting off any greetings with pleas already on the tip of his tongue.

"Zack, I need your help."

Zack raised an eyebrow. "Me specifically?"

Jonathan gestured to the curious eyes behind him. "Any of the Blacksheep. All of them. Just, someone."

"You sound a little panicked. Maybe calm down a bit and then—"

"_No!_" He leaned into Zack's space, forcing a surprised step back. "No, I need this now. My friend is missing. Early in the morning, along the line between our turf and Demons, by the fire."

The Blacksheep behind Zack murmured as the implications set in. Nothing good happened to people who disappeared near Demon tags in the dark. He looked Jonathan up and down, eyes hard but considering, then glanced to the others for consensus. Nobody said anything. Silence was agreement with whatever Zack decided.

His jaw tightened. "The Demons have trespassed and broken truces. I don't see why we can't bring a little fire to them. They might be planning to destroy us, but if we're going out, it's going to be with a few of them."

Near the back of the crowd, a rebellious whisper. "Who even cares about some girl."

Zack glared, then gave Jonathan's shoulder an encouraging pat. "Jonathan does. So do I."

Growling devoured the night as hundreds of bikes sprang to life. Ever organized, Hannah approached him with her notepad, and he gave her the description. Blacksheep rushed past him with wrist shattering high fives and friendly shoulder bumps. Zack grimly kicked up his bike stand.

"I'm going to speak to the other leaders," he said. "They're as upset as me. A few of them have been looking to fight for awhile now. This is all the incentive they'll need." His hand raised in a quick three-finger salute. "You've got lots of men behind you. Don't worry, Jonathan."

Then the street was empty, littered with still-smoking cigarette butts and tire skids. Jonathan's shoulders slumped. No matter where this went, it wasn't going to end well. At least he had one nice evening with Sock to remember. He thought about Lil, trapped and scared somewhere in the cold and the dark. Thought about Sock, curled up in the garage's watery light. When he'd been destitute she'd shown him hope despite his unwillingness. He owed her. Sock was safe, he could make it up to him later. She needed his help now.

Resolve steeled, he mounted his piece of shit and sped away to search, one pocket flapping in the wind and the other grounded with Sock's gift. He aimed for the heart of the fire, Stony Marsh. God, he hoped she was okay.

Stony Marsh wasn't far from the diner, a few blocks maybe. According to the signs it was one of many city neighborhoods with a crime watch, not that it did much, Lil as proof. Lawns spotted with yellowing grass and crystallized dew were scattered with folding chairs and soccer balls and other family items. A few windows were lit, and some curious faces peeked through window curtains before worried hands ushered them away. Blacksheep had combed over most of the street were Lil lived. Despite the fear in her mother's eyes, they managed to get her cooperation. They wisely let Hannah do most of the talking. When Jonathan arrived, following the trail of agitated homes and grumbling bikes, she was sitting on the curb with a kerchief extended to the mother.

He idled his bike, staying seated. "Anything?"

Hannah shook her head, ruffling through pages of notes. "She left for work at roughly 9:00 to 9:15 pm, walking. She arrived at her shift and signed out around 1:30 am, I have your testimonial. She never made it home." Voice gentle, she turned to the mother. "Are you sure you have nothing else, Mrs. Nancy?"

Nancy, so that was Lil's last name. Mrs. Nancy hid her face in the handkerchief. "I'm sorry, I don't."

Jonathan revved his engine, earning a frown from Hannah and a violent startle from Mrs. Nancy. "I'll go ask around."

He cruised, connecting with other branches of the search. Asking. Hoping. There was nothing. Frustrated, he zoomed back to the diner, planning to search from where he last saw her on hands and knees if needed. When he parked his bike in the shadow of the building he noticed something in the sidewalk weeds — a dark rectangle. Brow furrowed, he stooped to pick it up. It was a cellphone, the 1x2 inch screen cracked, casing scratched to reveal white plastic under blue paint. The screen flashed red. Five messages. He held down the silver unlock button, then the 1 key, holding it up to his ear.

"Lil," it was Jojo. His stomach flip-flopped. This must be Lil's phone. "You didn't show today. Is everything okay? Just call me back at the diner."

_Beep_. "I'm not sure if you got my first message, but please call me at the diner."

_Beep_. "Lil please pick up. Was it that Jonathan kid? Just talk to me."

_Beep_. "Magill Nancy!" He held the phone away from his ear with a wince. "You better hope this is a joke, because I know where you live! Pick up the damn phone before I do something drastic!"

_Beep_. The last message was just the familiar sound of a hissing grill, and then the clatter of a phone being put back into its cradle.

He stared at nothing for a minute, the phone still to his ear, an electronic voice telling him all the keys to press. This was finally a clue, but it could mean anything. Lil could have dropped the phone as she left work. This very spot could be where she disappeared. He looked to the diner, just a few feet away. He could have done something.

The phone shook. _He could have done something_.

A few calming breaths. He stuffed the phone in his empty pocket, fingers numb with cold. All he could do now was find her, there was time to beat himself up later. First things first. He dropped to the cement, straining in the dark to distinguish shadow from suspicious spots. His hand brushed a tooth, only recently dry, and nearby a few patches of blood. It was at the inside edge of the sidewalk, where the dirt of the slim path along the right side of the diner began. After close inspection he found a pair of boot prints in the dust, and followed them to the back side of the building into another alley. A brick wall separated this alley from his, where the dumpster and doors were. Broken asphalt began and the dirt with its footprints ended. Left with nothing. Again.

He circled back around to the front of the diner again, hand on the phone. There had to be something...

His thoughts trailed off. A light was on in the diner. Cautiously, he tried the door. It opened with nary a sound, and he wove around booths and the counter to the tiny office at the back. He assumed it belonged to the boss, Providence. It had never been open while he was around, but now the door allowed a crack of light into the otherwise dark space. Against his better instincts, he pressed it open. It was as any office would look. A few filing cabinets, stacks of paper and receipts, a plug-in fan on the floor and a heater next to it. There were two desks on opposite sides of the office, one to the left acting as a shelf for binders and documents, and one to the right with a lit lamp and a woman bent over a notebook, a phone jammed between her shoulder and ear.

"For the last time," she said, flipping through some papers with a severe look. "Ozzy, if they try to give you that bull again, throw it back in their faces, make a mess. I didn't order any of that stock and they're just trying to screw us over." Her pencil scratched over some numbers.

He stood awkwardly in the open door, regretting his curiosity. When she finally noticed him she didn't look angry, just gestured that he should come inside and shut the door. While he complied she wrapped up the call, input a few numbers into a calculator, then swung to face him, rolling her chair away from the desk. She didn't look like a gang boss, but then again, not many did. Lil was right, it was probably some strange coincidence.

"Jonathan! So nice to finally meet you."

He nodded, glancing at the floor. "You must be Providence?"

"Yes." She crossed her legs and stretched with a grunt. "I apologize for being so absent. I've got a lot of duties."

"It's okay..."

She pulled a chair out of a mountain of paper. "You should tell me about yourself. We're practically strangers."

He shook his head, backing towards the door handle. Lil. "I'm sorry, I can't now."

She must have seen the ominous gleam of his eyes. "What's up?"

"My, uh, friend is missing. I'm helping search."

She watched his face and then turned back to the desk. "Okay, I won't keep you. If you need any help, just call."

He wasn't sure what a lady who ran a diner could do, but he acknowledged her offer anyway. On the sidewalk again he glared at the moon high in the sky, then heaved a cloudy sigh. No distractions. Starting his bike on the second try, he aimed for the fuzzy line between Blacksheep and Demon territory. He passed the garage, the charred bones of the building, then came to a crossroads, the alleyways and storefronts heavy with graffiti. Fiery red in sharp angry arcs across the bricks and black rounded tags dripping from many repaintings. The bike's vibrations knocked his teeth together, and he expected the area to be empty, but as he approached he noticed a shadow standing motionless in the moonlight.

He slowed to a stop and dismounted. "Jojo?"

Jojo didn't give any indication that she had noticed him. Her shoulders were stiff, and her knuckles cracked and flexed. Dirt covered her face and clothes. She had been gone nearly as long as Lil, and by her dark expression he assumed her search had gone about as well as his.

He jumped when she spoke.

"You know who did it." Rocks grinding as she shifted. "Demons."

If she glared any harder into their turf she might nuke it. He fished the phone and tooth out of his pocket with an apprehensive frown. She accepted the evidence with an expression like stone, pushing them carefully into her pocket. When she bent to the ground he wasn't sure what to expect, but cruel delight curled his lip when she came up with two lengths of lead pipe.

"I saw a Demon lurking around earlier. He didn't want to talk, but he also didn't want to be a piñata." She tossed him one, the end a bit soiled. It wasn't just dirt staining her clothes. "There's a warehouse nearby. Some Demons have been using it recently. He claimed he didn't know what they were doing. I have my suspicions."

He hefted the pipe, getting used to the weight. "Let's check it out."

The warehouse was in about the same condition as his garage, maybe worse. Weeds and garbage decorated the base of the walls. Moonlight cast weird shadows through the holes in the walls. Demon tags were all over it, not that he understood why anyone would try so hard to claim a piece of shit. Jojo still didn't trust him, but once they reached the building with no unfortunate encounters she gave him a look.

"I'm going to go around the other side. Think you can handle sneaking in the front?"

He nodded under her skeptical gaze. The front entrance was propped open with a large stone. From a safe distance he watched it, wary of any movement or noise. A cat popped out of nowhere. He advanced when nothing else made any moves, pipe held in a death grip. It looked no better inside. Spots of light struggled through holes in the ceiling, splattering the floor like errant blood. He tried his best, but rocks and debris still crunched and scattered away from his feet. Hunched with the pipe on his shoulder, he made it to the center. Quick glances into the thin shadow. It looked like no one was home.

A great force planted a blow to his lower back and ripped the pipe out of his grip as he tumbled to the floor. Disoriented, he rolled just in time, a heavy boot landing in the spot where his head would have been. Once he was a few yards away, he stood, challenging the gleaming eyes in the dark. Someone stepped into a ray of moonlight, tapping the pipe in one hand.

"Yer crashing the wrong party, kid. You should go, or we might have to get rough." It was Scar, as boogeyman-esque as ever.

"Where is Lil?" he growled. "I don't care what fight you have with the Blacksheep, let her go."

He hacked a laugh. "You think this has to do with Demons and Blacksheep? Dumb kid. This is orders from higher up."

Jonathan's fists clenched. He couldn't ever think of a situation where Lil would be specifically targeted by someone high up in the ranks of Demons. But reasons didn't matter. "Just let her go."

Scar examined the bloody spot on the pipe with a small smile. "No."

Jonathan ducked with lucky timing. The pipe flung through the air like a boomerang, whirling the hair on the back of his head into a mess before clanging against the wall. While his ears roared with adrenaline, a door to his left opened, slicing a line of light across the floor, and a head popped out. Another Demon began to shush Scar, but then noticed Jonathan, crouched with wide eyes. He disappeared, then reappeared, opening the door all the way.

"You can come in."

Jonathan remained bent, sinew and pulse bulging. They thought he was stupid. Why the fuck would he walk into such an obvious trap? Scar's lips thinned with displeasure. Before he knew what was happening, Jonathan was in the door, the other Demon stepping to the side to let him in.

The room was small, full of crates and support poles, a single industrial light dangling from chains in the middle collecting the corpses of hundreds of fried bugs. Against the wall directly opposite the door were two bodies. He sucked in a breath. Purple hair and a red hat with stars. Duct tape on her mouth, his head leaning limply on her shoulder, face in shadow. He whirled on the Demon.

"What the fuck is he doing here?! Isn't he one of yours?"

The Demon shrugged nonchalantly and offered no explanation.

Jonathan took a few long strides and knelt in front of them, jamming a finger in each neck. Thank god, still alive. He patted their faces lightly, feeling the Demons congregate behind him.

"We're leaving." His statement left no room for argument. "You won't stop me, because I have all the Blacksheep behind me, and they know where I am."

He whirled as Scar laughed. "Still bein dumb, I see. You came in alone, and all the poor lil sheep are busy following a false trail."

Jonathan smirked. Finally something he was on top of. "Actually, fuckwit, I came in with an _Angel_." The confidence drained from their faces. As they stepped away with wary glances, he tensed. "Aren't there supposed to be four of you?"

The two Demons exchanged frowns. "That lil bitch right there beat Clyde nearly into a coma, bust a tooth right out of 'im before we got her. And Jordan, he left to scout 'while ago, haven't seen him since..."

Jonathan couldn't help the swell of pride hearing Lil hadn't gone down without a fight. If he accounted for the Demon Jojo took out at the territory line, then there were two less Demons to worry about. A hand landed on his shoulder from behind. He turned to see Sock, eyes alert and a small smile on his face. He sighed in relief.

"Sock, you're okay."

"Of course I am." Sock bounced to his feet. Jonathan stood with him. "They wouldn't hurt me. Well, not much more than some friendly fighting anyway."

Jonathan frowned, worried. Maybe they had hit his head or something. "Sock, they kidnapped you."

Sock looked confused. "No they didn't. They're helping me."

Jonathan blinked. "What?"

He looked between Lil, still passed out and tied up, to Sock, smiling as always, then the Demons, watching the exchange with level expressions. It occurred to him that even Sock knew the appropriate times to drop a grin, and now would be one of them. This wasn't making sense. Sorting through his thoughts, his back shot ramrod straight as he hit a suddden connection. He backed away from Sock, a terrible suspicion brewing at the back of his head.

"Jonathan? You're panting."

He gulped another lung of air. No. No, if he thought about it, this did make sense. If he remembered Sock's job, the fact that he was under the direct command of the Demons's boss, which was about as high up the command chain you could get. How unhappy he'd been with Jonathan gone at the job. Hell, he knew who Lil was, he knew what Lil meant, he hadn't given a shit when she was on the radio. Lil didn't matter.

"Sock."

_Lil didn't matter_.

"Yeah?"

"Were you going to kill Lil?"

"Well, yeah." _Shink_. The switchblade gleamed wet in the fluorescent light.

Jonathan stood frozen, unable to breathe. There was a muffled noise, and he turned his eyes to Lil against the wall behind Sock, eyes wide awake and trained fearfully on Sock's back. Cuts on her face. Bruises in her skin.

The shopping district. He was in the car with the Demons, beaming with fresh blood. The day Lil was reported missing. Happier than usual.

_You care about me_.

Sock had been the entirety of his affection.

_I thought you didn't care_.

He didn't want to share.

"Are you crazy?!"

Sock looked considering. "It's been suggested."

"You don't just go around killing people!"

Sock squatted on his hams near Lil, knife twirling between his fingers, a fond smirk making his eyes soft. "Actually, that's exactly what I do."

Jonathan spluttered a little. "Okay, but you can't kill Lil."

"All she does is make you ignore me." Sock pouted to the knife, looking like a child denied a cookie. "I don't like her."

"Well you should have just told me how you felt! I'm not a mind-reader, Sock. I didn't know you were feeling so left out. If I had known I would have made more time for you."

The twirling paused. "Really?"

"Really."

He dropped the switchblade and fell into Jonathan's chest. Jonathan gave him a squeeze and a reassuring kiss on the forehead, smiling at the reciprocating nuzzle. His fingers buzzed as the adrenaline began to wear off. Sock always listened to him. "Now you're going to let Lil go, alright? Killing her solves nothing."

Sock huffed, walked over to the wide-eyed girl, then ripped the tape from her mouth, which yielded a high-pitched noise that he grinned at until he saw Jonathan's stern face.

"You're both insane," Lil gasped through panicked pants.

Jonathan put an arm around Sock's shoulder with a flustered laugh. "Probably."

Scar smacked his lips like he'd bitten into a particularly sour lemon. Jonathan's arm around Sock went taut. He had forgotten the other Demons. Bending to Lil, he snatched Sock's knife off the cement and cut the tape on her wrists and ankles, then hauled her to her feet. Her face was ghastly pale, and her muscles jittered under his hand. Other than the cuts and bruises there was a bit of dirt and drying blood, but she was okay. Jonathan hooked her arm around his shoulder.

"You said this was a kill and burn."

"Jonathan doesn't want us to." Sock sighed. "Next time."

Scar advanced on Jonathan and Lil. "How 'bout _this time_—"

Jonathan readied the knife in his hand, leaning awkwardly under Lil's weight, but Sock got there first. He landed a swift kick to the Demon's knee, and he fell into a reluctant bow with a grimace.

"Jonathan. Said. _No_."

With an angry grunt he snatched at Sock's ankle, missing as Sock backed away. The second Demon approached and put a calming hand on his shoulder. "Best not upset him. Boss would fire you."

Jonathan edged toward the door as they spoke. He had Lil. He hadn't come for Sock, but he had him too. Time to leave and forget this ever happened.

"I'm getting real tired of being told no!" The Demon fought to his feet, one knee wobbling. His gaze was fire on Sock, who was still in the room. Three voices raised at once when he bunched the front of Sock's shirt and lifted him off the floor.

"I'm serious, Cal. Don't mess with him." The other Demon reached out a hand.

Lil's panting filled Jonathan's ear. Reluctantly, he set her on the doorway floor, then stood beside the one Demon that seemed to have a sense of reason. Fist clenched around the knife, he flicked it open. _Shink_. Scar turned to the sound, almost growling.

"I swear to god, you do a thing to Sock and you'll be seeing that afterlife you're so fond of."

Scar chuckled, quiet and low. Then he threw his head back and laughed to the ceiling. Sock scrabbled at the hand on his clothes. He froze when Scar smiled at him, all soft and kind. The hand lowered, his dangling toes scraped the dust, then Scar threw Sock against the wall with a resounding _thwack_. A line of red followed him down the surface and he crumpled at the bottom. Unmoving.

Jonathan choked on something. "_You bastard_."

"Goddammit, you're going to be in so much trouble."

Jonathan lunged, blade aimed for the stomach, aching to rip and tear and watch the ground turn red with slimy chunks. His hand was deflected, but blind anger lent him agility, and he swung upward, connecting with a fleshy face. There was a pained exclamation, a rain of warmth. He was kicked to the ground, the hand with the knife crushed with a stomach churning _crack_. A yelp tore through his throat and his vision turned momentarily white. Covered in blood and dirt and agony, he glared up at the Demon standing over him.

"Nice try, lil lamb."

A foot swung. Everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3: Jonathan the Great

Loud. Bright. Hot. A fat slab of dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Ringing in his ears, high pitched and just out of reality, like a dog whistle. It strung through his thoughts, prevented him from registering anything. His chin was on his chest, head flopped forward like an ill-placed doll, and at his back, a support pole. There might have been another voice, but it was behind a thick wall of near-unconsciousness. Something elbow-sharp brushed his back. He opened his mouth, tried to swallow. Then there was vomit all over his lap. Great.

The air was thick and strained his breath. Hot sticky liquid trickled down his cheek. With watery eyes he struggled to figure out where he was. Something important was happening. He didn't remember falling asleep. This felt like the hangover from hell. Whatever it was that he drank, he was never doing it again.

Brushing at his back again. He jerked his head to look as best he could over his shoulder.

"Would you stop doing that?"

He lost the reply in a roaring sea of blood as the movement caught up with his massive headache. Pushing down a groan, he tried to think. Sock. Something with Sock. Five messages. Panic. Someone was missing. Jojo with a pipe. The dance club burned down. _Sock_.

"Sock." His voice cracked.

The grin and the laugh and the red, red wall and the fire in his veins and the scar and the knife, the need to stab and rip and make him pay.

Loud banging in another room. His name. He grunted. The muscles in his neck wouldn't work, and he was stuck watching his legs go from four to two and back again.

"...than. Jonathan!"

"Whaaat..." Just talking was like breathing water.

"Oh thank god you're not dead."

"I wish I was." He blinked at a cracked wall, torn pieces of tape on the floor beyond his feet. Sock squatting, a soft smile.

"Jonathan!"

"What?!" he snapped.

"I've said your name a hundred times."

He swung his head, catching a glimpse of purple hair over his shoulder. "Lil?"

"Who did you think I was?"

"Things aren't very clear right now." Pounding on his temples, like blunt nails in his brain. He shook his head and instantly regretted it. He tried to shift his arms, they were sore and stiff and wouldn't move, and it felt like his hands had ceased to exist altogether. "Where are my hands?"

Lil made a distressed noise. "You must be concussed. Dammit."

"Lil, where are my hands?!"

"Don't panic, they're behind your back. They tied us up pretty tight."

Jonathan was quiet, letting the implications set in. Tied up. They were caught. He stared at the dirty knees of his jeans, brow furrowed. He knew what was going on. It was somewhere in his head. But fuck if he could see through the cotton.

"...and I can't believe it. Jonathan, are you listening?"

"Uh huh."

"Your boyfriend is a psycho murderer!"

"That should probably bother me more than it does."

A series of explosions rocked the walls. The noise shot through his head like a bullet and forced his eyes shut tight. He tried to hiss through the pain, but the air fought his lungs and choked him, crawling up his nose as thick and smothering as cloth.

"What's happening?"

There were a few ominous seconds before Lil replied quietly, like she was scared to hear it said out loud. "They lit the building on fire." She shifted against the pole. They were back to back, her fingers brushed his wrist. "How much do you remember?"

"There was..." he winced. Even thinking hurt. "Uh. You were missing. Sock." Blood, eyes in the shadows. Red without stars. "Sock?"

There was a long pause. "He hasn't moved."

He knew what had happened. It was right there. Right next to him. At the base of the wall. He just had to look. Instead he shook his head despite the pain and searched his brain harder. There had to be something else. There had to be a memory past the broken body on the floor.

Lil stiffened against the pole at the behemoth crack of something outside their room collapsing. Fire rumbled into a new area of the building. The air was hazy with smoke, and Jonathan's vision finally began to line up. He blinked, then looked at the wall. An arrow of red pointed to Sock in the dust, limbs splayed at awkward angles, hat half-off a head stained dark, crusty knife at his feet. He saw double again, two Socks on the ground, too much blood. Denial electrified his muscles into spasms against the binds and warmth dripped from his wrists as he struggled to free himself.

"It's no use," Lil said. "They're zip ties."

Zip ties. Plastic.

"Lil. Reach into my pocket. Get my lighter."

This lighter was a cheap gas station thing, his name scrawled across one side in permanent marker. Just Jonathan, since he wasn't a Combs. Luckily his jacket was already unzipped. He wiggled his hips and shoulders, trying to position the pocket near Lil's hand. The support pole wasn't more than a few inches thick and their hands were bound in zip tie cuffs pulled taut to the pole with another tie. His fingers were probably against Lil's butt, because hers were against his. There was time to be embarrassed later. It worked to their advantage now.

"I'm not going to light you a cigarette."

"No, you can melt the cuffs."

He was ready to resort to name calling, but the jerk at his pocket as fingers strained to reach calmed his tongue. All of his focus was on her hand, he looked straight at the wall, he even forgot to breathe, because focus anywhere else would be on the arrow. And Sock. And his dwindling sanity.

Fog descended over the wall and he drifted through a spike of pain as she jostled his busted hand. He came back to Lil's panicked voice.

"Jonathan?! Oh my god, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he panted. The vomit on his lap might be getting some company. "Do you have the lighter?"

A clatter of plastic. "Yeah." She felt around, judging the best place. "I can only reach your wrists."

Even though she couldn't see, he nodded. Okay. He could do this. "Lil, no matter what, keep burning. Don't let the flame stop. Okay?" Through the plastic of the ties he felt her shaking. "Just get them off and I can get the knife and we'll be out of here."

She didn't verbally reply, and she didn't stop shaking, but he heard the snap and low hiss of the lighter catching fire. The terrible angle of her wrist bent it in a C shape to reach the ties on his wrist, and she took a sharp breath when the flame brushed her skin. He made a soothing sound and she eventually positioned it right. At first it was just a bit of warmth against his wrists. His fingers were probably purple, the circulation cut entirely. He focused on the wall. Slowly, the warmth increased, spread along the plastic. It was sunburn, friction against rough carpet. The sort that left skin peeling and burning. Chewing on his lip, he heaved a breath as the first drop of melted plastic tore a line down his skin.

The flame drew away.

"Jonathan, I can't do this, I can't burn you―"

"Do you want to die?" He shook water from his eyes. Everything depended on Lil's nerve. "What about college? Just do it. Quick, like a Band-Aid. I'll be okay. It's not very thick."

She made a strangled noise. The heat returned, metal pressed into his skin, splitting canyons to his bones and melting. He chomped on the sting and let his chin fall to his chest again. Out the corner of his eye he saw red, thought about sweet kisses and that goddamned smile, sizzling fat and the cap of a salt shaker. A wire of white fire crawled up his neck, the world wavered out of existence. He growled. It couldn't be over yet. Angry now, he jerked his hand, there was a snap, and his arms were free.

The skin was red-white and leaking and corroded, but he only had eyes for Sock. Hauling his body across the few feet separating them, he fell against a scarf and a hat and put a hand on his cheek. It was cold, and though the next logical step would be checking for a pulse, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Where there was no confirmation or denial there was hope. Schrödinger stuff. So he scooped up the blade near Sock's matted hair and dragged himself back to Lil.

She babbled at him, asking if he was okay and shit. He ignored it, focused on slipping the blade between her skin and the zip ties. The first try missed, instead slicing a red line in her knuckles, but with no time for apologies he just sucked a labored breath and tried again. Ties fell away and she lurched from the pole with the whites of her eyes stark circles on her sooty face. She put a clumsy hand on his shoulder and he collapsed in another pool of barf, vision wobbling her feet. The room spun until it focused on the red again. All that red.

He heard the door's violent opening, he noticed the ground fly away from his chin as someone lifted him. He didn't care until Sock's body began to recede. They were taking him away.

"Stop." He wiggled in the grip. "Sock."

Lil's guilty face flashed across his vision, then a familiar, late voice.

"Do you really want to save the guy that tried to kill you?"

Jojo. Fucking Jojo. Where had she been? So much for teamwork. Probably left him to die alone and come picking through the carnage to get Lil once he'd done her dirty work. Trust an Angel to be a backstabber. Jostled against the doorway, pain shot through his head, and he didn't think anymore.

They were in the main room, the lead pipe at the base of a cracked wall, smoke plucking sunrays out of the air. His heels dragged through dirt and stones, Lil hauling one arm and Jojo the other. Halfway out the door he convulsed, gaining the freedom to get real close and personal with the ground. Swaying to his feet, squinting in the sun, he glared. Glared at walls, glared at rocks. Eventually he figured out where Jojo and Lil stood, and he aimed his acid in their general direction.

"You can't just leave him to burn!"

The fuzzy shape of Lil retreated behind Jojo in the vast lot outside the warehouse.

"Of course we can," she said. "He tried to kill Lil."

Jonathan just shook his head. It didn't matter, Sock was still Sock. Covered in blood and smiling when ripping things up and unsettlingly charming and sugar sweet and warm and breathing and very much _his_.

He stumbled back through the door into a wall of smoke and heat.

The fire had spread into the main room. There wasn't much to burn, all the products cleared out when it had first been abandoned. Flame licked across the roof and walls of the far side, snipping in quick steps across piles of crisp leaves and patches of weeds in the cracks of the cement. His hand throbbed, and he couldn't get it to work the sizzling door handle, so he threw his entire body against the barrier with all the frustration and anger he had. Angels, Demons, Blacksheep, who fucking cared. Jojo or Lil. His sister or his parents. Nothing mattered. Give him a night holding Sock. The dumbass that couldn't bring himself to tell Jonathan that he was getting lonely.

His vision wouldn't focus. He reached the wall, bent, forced the broken burned hand around a stiff shoulder, heaved and huffed in the thick air. Out the door, through the fire, coughing and wheezing in the sunlight. On his knees in the dust, cradling Sock's head. His brain wobbled in sympathy when his hand came away dripping red. The building was inches away, a vortex of dry air buffeting his eyeballs, and swollen tears carved lines down the soot on his face. He fell to the ground, wrapped around Sock like a bandage.

"I'm sorry."

There wasn't a reply.

He awoke to the sky. Big and blue and bright and cold. A balled up piece of cloth supported his head, and the mangled hand pulsed beneath a mess of cloth. Two lines of indistinct faces encroached on the sides of his vision, and he turned his head both ways to see better. To his right, Zack at the head of the Blacksheep, and a crowd of Demons on his left. Neither group made any noise, but he felt their eyes on him. A cough tickled his throat. There was something he was forgetting. Again. If only his head would stop hurting.

"Jonathan!" Zack stepped forward a bit, leaning at the waist. "What happened?"

"What, not going to ask me if I'm okay?"

Zack frowned, eyes distrustful. "These Demons think you were being initiated."

"What?"

"Is it true?"

"Of course not."

Jonathan looked to the Demons. If something burned, they were there lickety split. Splitter than lickety, even. The fire department was constantly ashamed. They watched him carefully, calculating his worth.

Zack's mouth tightened. He toed something on the ground near Jonathan's shoulder. His lighter. "This was next to you. The fire wasn't accidental. You're burned. And..." Eyes to the back of the opposing crowd. "You were with a Demon."

It all came back like punches to the gut. Lil on the radio. Searching. Jojo a shadow in the moonlight. Scar's smile in the dark. Two bodies, the flash of a knife, relief, then a smear of precious red.

He struggled to rise. "Sock, oh my god, Sock."

A rough hand on his shoulder, voice heavy like a guillotine. "Jonathan, is it true?"

On his feet he denied it. No, he would never join the Demons. No no no. But he was walking down a corridor of burn scars and triumphant smirks and kneeling by a silly hat the wrong shade of red and the Blacksheep were so far away. No no no. Not Sock.

The shouting came first. Anger and betrayal, boasting and abuse. Someone unsheathed. Metal erupted like a wave, flashing in the sunlight. Knives and guns and brass knuckles and bats. Laughter, because the poor little sheep were outgunned and outnumbered. Everything was so loud, the sky screamed the sound of revving bikes and cocking hammers, the ground rumbled. Blacksheep advanced, Demons gave in good fun. Taunting, playing. Suddenly he was in the open, marking the stark division between the warring sides. He didn't look up, expecting crossfire, busy bending over Sock, hand in his stiff hair. There wasn't much time left now.

Broken hand on Sock's chest, he lowered his ear, eyelids squeezed tight. Roaring blood, but that was his. He took a breath. Calmed down. Just give him this last thing. Please.

A few moments of silence. Then.

_Ba-dump_.

And again, faint. _Ba-dump_.

Breath ruffled his hair.

He sighed, limp against the chest. Sock's living, breathing chest. Thank whichever Almighty cared.

A shadow eclipsed his light. He rolled his head, squinting. Certain he had finally cracked, he smiled softly.

"Hey, Providence. Funny place to see you."

His boss reciprocated the smile, eyes dark with worry. The shouting had silenced, and a murmur rippled through the crowds in its place. Grumbling and awe. It's Providence. The Providence.

His head hung. Of course it was the Providence. Head honcho of the Angels. In this city, in his life, running an inconspicuous little diner, there was no way it could have been a coincidence. Man was he stupid.

"Jojo brought me here."

Jojo glared at the ground, halfway hiding behind Providence. She was covered in soot, face nearly black, and if her clothes had been a mess before they were beyond salvation now. Providence, on the other hand, was as pristine as when she'd been in the office. A huge metal tube covered with switches and handles was strapped to her back.

There was a lewd shout from the Demons. Jonathan saw where Jojo learned to glare. Providence messed with the strap across her chest and addressed him with deadly calm.

"Did anyone ever tell you the Angels' specialty? Black market tech, and under that umbrella," she heaved the pipe off her back and onto a shoulder, flipping an ominous switch, "illegal firearms."

Frantic scrambling from the Demons as the front lines tripped over themselves backing away. The empty space between the two sides widened, leaving Jonathan over Sock and Providence over them both. An uncomfortable shuffle traveled through the Blacksheep. Providence wasn't any friend of theirs, but she was neither an ally to the Demons. The business end of her weapon was aimed at the opposing crowd. The enemy of the enemy is a friend. Zack remained on top of suspicions anyway.

"What are you here for, Providence? This is a Demon and Blacksheep fight. The Angels can stay far away."

She glanced over her shoulder, brow drawn. "Jonathan is my employee. The Angels have nothing to do with this. This is personal. Besides, it's been awhile since I last saw Chief Butthead and I know how much he digs the big guns. He loves it when shit blows up in his face."

She spread her legs in an anchored stance. Jonathan gripped Sock's shoulders tighter. Blacksheep took reluctant steps back and Demons milled about with readied guns and blades. Just a sneeze would tip the balance into total chaos.

"With a flick of my finger you'll all be unmade. So tell me, boys," she hefted the weapon with a mechanical clank, "are you ready to test your maker?"

Rocks clattered as the ground rumbled. Jonathan looked back, thinking it was the bikes this Blacksheep were so famous for, but none of them were engaged in anything more than an idle purr. Confusion. A few of the Blacksheep glanced down at their bikes. But it wasn't them, it wasn't the Demons, and it wasn't Providence. Her stance didn't falter as a troop of armored police cars squeezed between the narrow alleys of the surrounding ruins. Both gangs backed away this time. Jonathan found himself at the center of a three-way frontier.

"Why is this happening to me?" he groaned.

A uniform stepped out of the leading car. A tallish guy, real pasty pale, massive ginger sideburns. The officer pulled out a megaphone. "Everyone lower your weapons!"

Providence's lips parted in a slow, deprecating smile. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Redhead himself. Dressed up with a shiny badge like he's a legitimate son of a bitch."

"Providence, we have warrants for your arrest!"

She took aim. "You'll have to catch me first, Chief." A pull of the trigger and each group backed away from what was left of the burning warehouse. It went up in a roaring ball of flame that shattered eardrums. Jonathan crouched a little more over Sock. They needed to get out of here.

Providence watched the scrambling police with a level expression, considering the worth of their sorry souls. When she spoke, he froze, unsure if it was to him.

"M72 Light Anti-Tank Weapon. A rocket launcher, or as Hollywood will tell you, a bazooka. The Big Bang in a bottle. We like to call them class-A Seraphim."

The policeman with the megaphone hadn't moved. His ridiculous hair wavered in the aftershock of the explosion, but he stood firm and unafraid near the flame. They glared at each other across the no-man's land, Jonathan stuck in the heat at her feet. Trapped between two forces bigger than him. Smoke from the smoldering building traced shadows of the police crouched behind the vehicular barricade and early morning sun reflected off their light armor. One of them called to the Chief, asking for advance, but he just shook his head.

Wait a second.

"Isn't that the Demon boss?"

"Jonathan dear, your test scores tell me you're a very bright boy. I'm surprised it took you so long. But then again..." She shrugged the bazooka onto her back and gripped his face before he had a chance to push her off, prying an eye wide open. "It doesn't look like you're in the right sorts at the moment. Jesus, what hit you so hard?"

He leaned away once she let go, gripping Sock tighter. "A Demon."

"Causing trouble as usual."

"It is their thing, yeah."

She met the Chief with a level glare. The line of peeping police faces were grim and tense as he approached, no doubt waiting for an excuse to shoot someone. He wore a cap with a pair of sunglasses perched on the brim and something nondescript under a bulletproof vest. One orange eyebrow raised in delicate curiosity when she pointed the barrel at his head.

"That's a LAW, there's only one shot."

"You got me." She tossed the weapon onto her back again. "You're making a mess again."

"I was called out here because there's gang activity and property damage. I haven't ordered anything."

"Then the Demons I caught nearby are lying?"

Jonathan broke in. "Did one of them have a big scar on his face?"

Providence glanced at him. "Yes."

Something acid turned his voice strong. "I need to kill him."

"Whoa!" Mephistopheles gave him an appraising once over full of amusement. "You're a feisty little sootsprite."

Jonathan coughed in reply. It triggered something in his chest and he was wheezing again. By the time it was under control they were snapping at each other. Over what, he couldn't tell. Mephistopheles flicked a discreet hand in the direction of the Demons.

_Bang!_

A police officer fell with a wet smack.

He spoke into the walkie talkie on his shoulder. "Will not negotiate. Lethal force authorized. Over."

"You're pretty testy today," Providence said.

Mephistopheles gripped her shoulder and spared a languid grin for her laser glare. "And you're pretty."

Her fist felled him like a wrecking ball. All chaos broke out. The police might be ignorant, but even they could tell that the Blacksheep at a good distance were unwilling to get between them and the Demons. While notorious lovers of violence, a majority of the crowd mysteriously disappeared as the police advanced. They were also notorious cowards.

Providence stalked off as Mephistopheles recovered on the ground, holding his face.

"_Wow_, she hasn't lost it."

A scream pierced the din. Nothing stopped, of course. Shots were fired and Jonathan watched a flank of Demons fall. They were subdued faster than he thought they could be. The police might always be late, but they were effective when they wanted to be.

"You're destroying your own gang."

Mephistopheles crouched now, a blemish forming near his mouth. "They won't be destroyed. There are always more, whether I want them or not." His partial-smile vanished for a moment. "So this is where Sock went. What happened?"

"Demons."

"You're going to have to be more specific."

Jonathan's eyes fell closed for a second. They opened again when Mephistopheles shook his shoulder. It wasn't a second, it was minutes. There were shapes on the ground in the distance. Uniforms strolled between them with cuffs and notepads. The scuffle was over.

"So are you going to tell me or are you going to die?"

"The scar guy I want to kill," Jonathan finally said. There was a name. The other Demon called him something. "Cal."

"Cal, huh?" Mephistopheles got to his feet, an early bruise on his face. "You probably won't get your revenge, then."

He wanted to say something to that. Something angry and questioning. But the man was gone, a spot in the distance with the police. Jonathan couldn't move. Then there was someone in front of him again. Someone outraged. He grabbed the collar of Jonathan's jacket.

"I got you in," Zack growled. "Nobody wanted a suburbs pansy like you, but I stood up for you. I let you keep this." He pulled the collar of the jacket back and forth, sending Jonathan's head spinning. "I pulled out all the stops for this search. I gave you a place to stay, I kept you in the loop. And this is how you repay me? How long have you been hanging out with this guy? Were you ever really a Blacksheep? Were you making tortillas with him too?"

Jonathan tried not to wince. Zack saw the struggle on his face, dropped his collar, and backed away in disgust.

"If I see you in our territory, I'll kill you, Jon."

"Don't call me Jon," Jonathan said quietly.

"You're right, the only name for you is _traitor_." Zack leaned into Jonathan's space, stooped so he felt each hot angry breath. "I can't believe I ever saw anything in you."

Jonathan kept his gaze on Sock, limbs draped around his upper body. Zack kicked something. The lot had mostly cleared out. When Jonathan looked up again he was gone. There was only one person left, and she bared her teeth at him. His lips felt charred and peeling. They parted as she approached, because she knew what had just happened. And he had to know too.

He meant to ask her a question, but the smoky air hissed across the torn surface of his throat and he curled over himself in a coughing fit instead. When he got ahold of himself she stood a foot away. By her stone cold expression, he guessed getting any help from her would be difficult. He blinked as she went out of focus again. It was hard to think.

"Lil's safe," she began. "Far away from you and that crazy."

"Good," he said. "Good, good..." He didn't need to worry about her. Jojo was crude, but she wouldn't be unfaithful to Lil.

She squatted to his level. "What's wrong with you?"

"What isn't?" A light tickle at the base of his throat made its best effort to heave his lungs out his mouth. He wheezed for air as the coughing stopped. There was only one thing he could seem to think of now.

"Jojo, you seem to know Providence well. What just happened?"

She shrugged, lax with nonchalance. "The stupid thing they do all the time. They glare at each other a bunch and blow some stuff up and disappear together." Then she added under her breath: "Prov's always complaining about how he likes to destroy stuff. I'm not sure she's noticed she likes it just as much."

"Don't they hate each other?"

"Yeah."

Jonathan's lost expression didn't earn him much sympathy, but if Jojo could do anything, it was air her gripes.

"It's like a really expensive hate-date, I think. And it's so annoying. There're like a million other things she could be doing and she's always complaining about him to everyone, including me, but they still do this thing."

Angry air hissed through her teeth and she took a few aggressive steps towards where Jonathan knelt on the ground. He didn't lean away. A little girl wasn't going to scare him. But when she made a fist, eyes trained on Sock's head, Jonathan leaned into her line of sight with a warning glare. Jojo stomped a foot, sending pebbles into skittering panic.

"I want to punch him in the dick! Because he's a dick!"

"Don't punch him, he's wounded!"

Her knuckles cracked loudly. "You think I give a fuck?"

"You act like he pissed on your spliff."

"If he had just 'pissed on my spliff' I could have beat him good and be done with it, but he had to be worse than that. As usual."

"Well you can't touch him." Jonathan pulled Sock closer to his body, freeing his good fist, which he clenched in promise.

Jojo scoffed. He was too pathetic to do anything. "Why, do you like that dick?"

"Yes. I do like that dick."

He ignored the exaggerated gagging noises when she realized the joke in favor of gently rearranging Sock's dirty scarf. He didn't notice she had stopped until she inched closer to his side. She spared sidelong glance at the body in his arms, firelight playing for shimmers in the watery film across her eyes.

"Is he okay?"

Jonathan gripped the mangled front of Sock's shirt. A pukey-yellow bruise blossomed across his left cheek and brown crust crept through his hairline. Brushing hair back into place, he pulled Sock's hat on tighter, resolutely ignored the stiff crunching, and settled further onto his knees, trying to keep his head propped in the hopes it was something a first responder would do.

"I don't think so."

Jojo's nose scrunched like she'd come across a real gory piece of roadkill. "Well whatever he gets, he deserves worse."

Jonathan sighed. "Can you find a Blacksheep? Get some help?"

"Why don't you help yourself," she sneered. "I'm nobody's messenger."

"I don't think I can."

"Nobody will help you. Or him. You've ignored loyalties. You're not a Blacksheep anymore, and there's no way the Demons would let him back in. If he lives."

She had a point. Everybody knew about him and Sock now. There wasn't a way to convince the Blacksheep otherwise. They had been suspicious since the dance club's demise, and finding him burned next to an immolated building with a Demon sure wouldn't make their suspicions a stretch. It had been too kind of Zack to even ask him. Anybody else would have been run over and left to die. He breathed through a stretch of the world spinning, gut clenched like iron. Something had to be done. For Sock, at least.

"Jojo, do you still have Lil's phone?"

She cocked her head and said nothing.

"I know you hate us, I'll do whatever you want. I'll never talk to Lil again, I'll quit the diner." His throat constricted. For a moment his head bobbed like an untethered balloon. He felt he might float away. "I'll move. Please, Jojo."

Gravel snapped under her sneakers. The phone was warm from her body heat and dropped into his hand like a lead brick. She chewed the inside of her cheek, eyes flat, and spun on her heel. He didn't watch her walk away, too busy groping through the contents of his pocket for a crumpled slip of paper. It came out sliced and bleeding, the paper blinged out with shards of glass. His lungs vacuumed flat. He tried his best to ignore the remnants of the shot glass, shuffled Sock around to hold the phone in his good hand (well, better hand), got the thing ringing, then stared blankly at the ground. Sock's light breath pressed against his jeans. Sunlight drew shadows across the ground, gleaming black and white between spots of oil and water. One of the long shapes on the ground groaned and shifted, but it was very far away. It rung ten times. Then her voice.

"Hello?"

He cleared his throat with a gravelly cough. "Hey, sis."

"Jonathan! Oh my god, you sound terrible. Are you okay?"

_Yes_ was on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed it, decided to not answer. "I need some help."

She didn't pose very many questions aside from asking to help him stand and a quizzical look when he barked a blatant no to the hospital. She had always been like that. Accepting things and working around it. She found solutions while he ran away. He hated her for that. For being better.

The car was silent. It was broad daylight outside. Traffic from the city exterior was nil since it was a weekday. She had a little blue hatchback that had seen one too many years, but like his bike seemed to ride the thermals of trust. Sock was strapped into the back seat, laying on his back, brow scrunched with every harsh break. They puttered into another neighborhood not much different from Lil's, one that he recognized as Flagway. A mile to the West was a blurry Angel-Blacksheep border. He had been here before.

"How long have you been here?"

"A couple months." She didn't look away from the road.

"Doesn't college take longer than a few years?"

She pursed her lips and was quiet. Jonathan glanced over the seat's shoulder. Sock looked alright.

"We really should bring him to a hospital," she said at last. "And you."

"No." Nobody had come looking for him, but there must be paperwork somewhere listing him as runaway. Sock was wanted for other reasons. Worse reasons. He wasn't going to risk it.

Her house was squished up against the back of a dilapidated convenience store. A huge wrinkled tree dominated the tiny square of grass that served as the front yard, branches hooked like claws across the front face and roof. She parked on the street and carefully took Sock out of the back, then inside.

She made him sit down on the faded armchair across from the couch once she set Sock in it. The living room smelled like dust and copious amounts of Lysol. He drew his legs against his chest and trapped his pounding head between the knees. He must have zoned out for a bit, because he when he looked up again the sun was gone and there was a bandage around Sock's head. His sister sat on the floor, strands of hair out of her bun, looking hard at an assortment of bloody utensils on a bed sheet before her.

"You both need stitches."

Jonathan kept a hand on his head, glad it had settled to a dull roar. "I'll be fine, just help him."

She looked like she wanted to contest his words, but chose another line of thought.

"When did you leave home?"

Jonathan stared at the sheet. There were brown hairs glued to a pair of precise scissors dark with blood.

"Jonathan."

"I don't have to talk to you."

"You called me."

He met her eyes for a second, then looked at Sock. "There wasn't anyone else."

She rolled up the sheet with crisp movements. Jonathan scratched at some dried blood on his cheek. He'd made her angry.

"Be glad your last resort is pursuing a medical degree or you'd be screwed in a bombed out lot with a concussion the size of Russia and half dead kid on your conscience."

She stomped out of the room. Water hissed through the pipes and she returned a few minutes later with clean utensils and a calmer expression. Jonathan squinted at the dark carpet near her feet. He was too dizzy and sick of everything to deal with her now. The expected bitching never came, however. Instead, she handed him a cup with a cloud of sharp fragrance and spread warm fingers across his cheek, supporting his head, which he hadn't realized was lolled against the back of the chair.

"Why do you do stupid things?"

"It wasn't my fault." The cup slipped in his hands. Before he did himself the indignity of dropping it he tipped it back and relished the line of heat down his throat.

She mopped around his face with a warm cloth. "Don't fall asleep."

"I know."

"I'll talk to you."

"Okay."

The cloth ran across his hairline. The fiery drink helped, but he still winced.

"To find you in that nasty little place I had to ask a lot of sketchy people, you know."

"That's nothing new for you, Caitie," Jonathan mumbled. "Still addicted to your Altoids tin?"

She scrubbed at a caked spot on his forehead harder than necessary. "I've been clean for a year now. I've got a job at the police station―autopsy assistant―and that's got me a car and this place and a chance for more money for school."

Jonathan closed his eyes. He had never really wanted to scream with frustration, but he felt the need now. She worked at the police headquarters. The Chief of Police was Sock's boss.

"Hey." Light tapping on his cheek. "You said you wouldn't fall asleep."

"You really shouldn't work there."

"I have to. Besides, I pick up some on the job stuff too. It's a pretty good deal."

He could tell she wouldn't back down and was too tired to try to make her understand. "Just... don't stick your nose in anything."

She made an amused noise. Plastic crinkled and snapped as a bag opened and he felt something sharp press into the gash near his hairline. "I'm not going to take advice from a dropout, little brother or not."

Snipping noises. Hair fell across his face and tickled his nose. He opened his eyes again, groggy but angry.

"Are you cutting my hair?"

"Well I can't stitch it in."

She battled off his good hand with a quick elbow. He didn't give up until a big clump that looked like an entire bang got in his eye. Then he tried to merge with the chair, face burning. She said something to comfort him, teasing like always about his mop of wild hair. How it needed to be cut anyway. His hand tried to shelter his embarrassment. A horrible little twitch of the lips became a little grin. She was so annoying.

Between his fingers he checked the sofa. Sock lay on his side, eyes gleaming in the living room's golden light. Jonathan's smile dropped and his lips stumbled to form questions. To offer relief and worry. But Sock glanced at his sister, then the ground. His eyes closed and he turned away, one arm covering the bandage on his head.

His sister hadn't released him with anything less than six bandages slapped to his skin, a neat row of stitches across his newly-cut hairline, and a homemade cast weighing down his arm. She had fussed over an old scar above his left elbow. Cut himself against the edge of a counter almost two years ago, not that big of a deal. She put some cream on it and left to try to make cinnamon rolls. By the smoke that forced her to open the windows a few minutes later, it hadn't gone well.

The knocking came sometime around one in the morning. Jonathan was worried he might need to get the door. He was wearing an old pair of jeans splattered with paint and his sister's most bearable T-shirt, something clingy and light blue that said "trust me, I'm practically a doctor". There was a blue phone booth on it, he was pretty sure it was one of her nerdy things and just left it at that. The armchair was very comfortable and the loud door very far away. He breathed a sigh of relief when she finally answered the polite pounding. It wasn't helping his head at all.

He hadn't had the courage to cross the room yet. Sock stayed curled up on the couch despite his sister trying to make him lie flat every hour. He hadn't said anything or moved much, just kept his knees and forehead pinned against the back of the couch. Jonathan's mind summoned distressing images of brain damage and shock, but his fear of conflict was greater than his fear for Sock.

Light from the front hall spilled into the room and he threw an arm over his eyes. He was pretty fucking useless.

Someone entered with his sister. Much to Jonathan's dismay, the voice was familiar. It asked for Sock. He tried to send Caitie telepathic signals telling her to lie, but alas his psychic powers were about as useless as his ability to emote.

She shook his shoulder gently, assuming him asleep. "Jonathan, you should meet my boss, the Chief of Police."

The springs of the couch squealed as the visitor sat. "We're acquainted."

"Oh?" Jonathan felt the cushion bow as she perched on the edge of his armchair. He gripped at his ear. This man had better make something up or he was in major shit.

"He and my Sock are practically inseparable."

"I'm glad Jonathan has a friend. He's always been shy."

"Well, it's very hard to resist Sock."

Nobody even needed to lie about that.

"It smells like smoke."

Caitie chuckled awkwardly, embarrassed to be such a mess. "It's just the nasty old oven that came with this place. It's okay."

"I'll get you a new one."

"Wha... No, I said it's okay. You really don't have to do that, sir."

"It'll be good for you. Wouldn't want people thinking you're a part of something you shouldn't be."

Caitie pursed her lips when she realized she wouldn't win this. "Alright. Thank you, sir."

He waved her off, smile teasing the physical bounds of his face. "It's no problem. I take care of my employees. It'll come this weekend." The Chief patted Sock's shoulder and guided him into a sitting position. "Come on, kid. We should be going."

Jonathan hid his eyes again. He didn't want to watch them leave. In the front hall his sister entreated the Chief to bring Sock to a hospital. There was agreement. What idiot wouldn't do such a thing? Jonathan melted further into the chair.

He was pretty sure days passed. A week. Two. It could have been years. He came to know the chair most intimately, each missing spring and extra lump of stuffing. Some places were worn so that he could push a hand inside and feel its wooden bones, draw blood with splinters and protruding nails. It was such an old chair. Made to support, yet just barely doing its job. So tired. His sister said it came with the house, that she didn't know much about it. If he pressed hard enough on each arm from the inside he felt the entire thing groan and fight splitting into pieces.

Sometimes he tried to force its demise. Laid his feet against the left arm and lower back against the right. Tensed and pushed and imagined his joints were forged of metal. Imagined the wood splitting and fracturing around nails and staples, tearing the stuffing and fabric apart. He could do it. It would break.

But he stopped. Fell against it again. It was all that held him up.

The cast pinched his flesh. He felt the bone harden and knob beneath his skin. The huge living room window was bare and no one was there.

Why did it break so easy?

He hated it.

He wanted to hold Sock again.

He heard her come into the living room before she announced her presence, but didn't acknowledge her until she cleared her throat. She looked only slightly annoyed with him. He didn't care. The cast weighed a concave into his chest, muting his heartbeat.

"What?" He hadn't been in the mood for human interaction since she found and discarded his cigs. There hadn't been anger quite so fierce on her face since he'd last seen her with their parents.

"I cleaned," she shook out his jacket with a violent _thwack_, face scrunched up, "this."

He grunted, closing his eyes again. The offending piece of clothing landed over his face. A cloud of lilac crawled up his nose. It muffled his sneeze. A faint smoky fragrance clung to the fibers and bathed his tongue in an odd mixture of artificial meadows and fire. This would set Sock's allergies off like crazy.

He forced his lungs to work again. Caitie was talking.

"...and I emptied out your pockets, which were really gross. Also dangerous. Why was there glass in there?"

Jonathan shot straight up. "You didn't throw it away."

She raised an eyebrow. "I did?"

"That was important! Where's the trash?"

"I put it on the curb this morning."

He crumpled the jacket with his good hand, air like knives. "Oh my god."

"I'm sorry, Jonathan." Mouth downturned and hands clasped she did her best impression of a kicked puppy. "I didn't know."

"It's… fine. It doesn't matter anymore. I don't care."

He fell into the chair again, spine hunched into the back, doing his best to pretend he fit it perfectly. A jigsaw piece that finally found home. The hand on his shoulder eventually left. It really didn't matter anymore. All this time he'd been hoping that maybe if he sat up and looked out the window Sock would be there. Persistent as always. Bouncy and bloody. Wondering when he'd skim his ass off the furniture and listen to him ramble on about livers. But Sock wasn't there. He checked less often. He hadn't bothered looking outside in a few days.

He knew what he should do. He should go out and look. Dodge around Blacksheep and police alike. Do what he'd done before. Bridge the chasm with Sock. That's what smart people did. Work things out.

But it was different now. Things had gone awry. He wanted to hear Lil too, ask if she was okay. He'd last seen only her vague shape. There hadn't been any time for saccharine sentiments or anything. She'd been shaky and injured because of Sock. And Sock had done it because of him.

Jonathan curled closer around his head. He'd promised Jojo he wouldn't go back anyway. He needed a smoke to help him think.

There was an analog clock on the wall nearest the kitchen door. It ticked away each wasted second. The sound was familiar, almost soothing. _Snick snick_.

Not anymore.

The darkness fell silently as always. It didn't care that his life was over. Everything was so big, the bigness squashed his brain and filled his lungs. He was better off here, a stain his sister's armchair with neither the love of his life nor the friend he'd finally made, where he'd only inconvenience himself with his misery.

Caitie was gone that night, probably doing some autopsy thing late. He awoke to the phone ringing, disoriented, expecting the garage, which had no phone, just his radio. The chair supported his head as he made a glum face at the receiver until he reached over and plucked it from its cradle on the coffee table.

"Hello?"

"Jonathan! I need you to come by tonight."

He wrapped the cord around his pointer finger, hoping his incredulous expression could be heard in his reply. "What? How did you get this number?"

"I've got a finger in every pie, but that's not important. What is important is that you show your face."

"Listen, Providence, Miss, whatever your name is, Gertrude." He put the cast on his forehead, squinting past some phantom pain. "I've quit. I'm not working at the diner anymore. Or ever again."

"You need to collect your last paycheck, then. You've racked up an impressive amount of hours. You shouldn't put them to waste."

"I don't give a fuck about money. You can keep it. Give it to Jojo or something."

"Jonathan." She sighed and he heard the scribbling of pen on paper. "It would be wise to come by the diner tonight."

The phone buzzed in his ear as the connection died. Light from a street lamp outside threw the little popcorn mountains of the ceiling into stark relief. What he really wanted right now was to get bubbly and lose a huge chunk of memory. But he knew that wouldn't be happening. He knew that he'd always do stupid things. His sister was right.

He rolled off the chair, fished his lambskin out of the shadows, and locked the door behind him.

The streets became progressively darker as the houses gave way to abandoned businesses and unlit alleyways. A quick suggestion of smoke reminded him of what had happened nearby. The diner was shiny and bright like a new electronic toy accidentally left in the trash. Why Providence had chosen this place, this dump, rather than a nicer and busier portion of the city to solicit her business, Jonathan didn't know. But he had begun to suspect that like everything he'd stumbled into, it had more meaning than he first thought.

Jojo sat on the counter. The sign on the door said _Closed_, but someone was in the kitchen behind her and all the lights were on. He stopped at the door, hands in the pockets of his jacket, watching his breath fog the glass. She fiddled with a length of rope, struggling to knot it in a peculiar way. A familiar way.

The Angels, like the Demons, had a preferred method of execution. It wasn't quite so destructive. More quiet and slow. They liked to hang people, a death with no spectacle and no beacon for the authorities. Sometimes they stuck around, pulled up chairs. The Demons ran because flame was indiscriminate and quick to turn on its instigator. Angels had a formula. They liked to watch when it came to fruition.

He wasn't sure which would be more comforting. Attentive eyes or a backside.

Jojo, it seemed, had not experienced the pleasure yet. By the way she tangled her little fingers in the rope, he guessed she'd be a baby gangster for a good amount of time. She didn't look up when the door slammed behind him. Once he seated himself at the counter nearby she met his eyes, glanced behind him, and then threw it around his neck. It fell apart as she tugged.

"Dumb thing," she muttered.

"I'm not too upset."

"I was kind of hoping Sock would be with you. If anybody deserves a halo, it's him."

Jonathan averted his gaze to the marbled design of the linoleum counter and resisted the urge to rub his neck. It had been too weak to do anything.

There was no hissing from the grill, which meant it wasn't on. The Hobart brand dishwasher chugged away, sudsing, steaming, and rinsing dishes and cookware with industrial harshness. It made a grinding sound, then fell silent. The violent nature of the water jets that scoured the dishes inside often dislodged a few and clogged the components of the machine. To deal with their annoyance they made a game of it.

"What's in the Hobart this time?"

Jonathan put a hand on his face. It was him again.

"A cup," said Jojo without looking up from her work.

"Some forks." This from the office.

There was the sound of the door opening as he fished the offending thing out of the washer. Jonathan absently wondered why he hadn't announced what it was yet. He winced when the voice addressed him.

"Jonathan, what do you think?"

"I dunno. A spatula."

Mephistopheles came out of the kitchen spinning a sudsy spatula around a finger, smiling. "Correct."

He placed the utensil on the counter with the reverence of one presenting a ceremonial sword and then disappeared behind the wall separating the counter and kitchen. Jonathan stared at the spatula. At least he was good for something.

The apron pegs behind the counter were full. They all had name tags save one. Jonathan cleared his throat.

"Where's Lil?"

Jojo violently yanked her unpracticed knot, kicking the air, nose scrunched. "She's gone."

"What?"

"She quit because of you."

"Oh."

"Oh? That's all you have to say?"

He shrugged.

"But what can you expect from somebody that dates that dick," she grumbled to herself.

Mephistopheles came out of the kitchen loudly mourning his manicure despite lack of any sympathy. He wore a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, probably what was under his police ensemble. It was splattered with water and a few stains from cleaning. Jonathan didn't know how anyone could miss his ridiculous splash of hair. Despite the fact that the leaders of the Angels and Demons were notoriously hard to find, there were photos somewhere. He'd seen some.

"How has no one realized you're Mephistopheles?"

Said man looked up from his nails, mildly surprised Jonathan had chosen to address him. "A hat and the occasional sunglasses and suddenly no one knows who you are. Adults are dumb, kid."

"So you really are Sock's boss."

"No, I'm actually just a porn double."

Sock's eccentric descriptions were not far off. "Okay..."

"I've got to assign him and others sparingly or our department might stick out more than it already does. I am many things, but not a failure." Mephistopheles, tapped a pensive finger on his chin. "Anyway, Sock doesn't have many friends. So I've heard a lot bout you. More than I need to know outside your file."

Jonathan tensed. "So you do have a file on me?"

"'Course! You seem to be a below-average gangster and a missing child, but nobody knows that since it's been stuck in bureaucratic limbo since the beginning of time."

"What does that mean?"

"It's in a pile propping up my desk," he deadpanned. "Sock's is also in there somewhere. It's horrible when an investigation just _poofs_ into nothing, huh?"

Jonathan gave an awkward grimace and shrugged. It was a more than a little disconcerting to find that he'd been on the radar of one of the most wanted men in the country for so long. And that Sock had been talking about him. The way he ran his mouth, Jonathan didn't really want to know what had been said.

"I've kept out of it so far, but I do have one thing to say." Mephistopheles leaned on the counter, smile constrained to something polite, kind of like when Sock closed his switchblade around civilian company. "_Be careful_."

He considered himself a rather smart kid. Jonathan nodded dutifully. He could promise this man whatever he wanted, but since he and Sock were on such tentative ground, it might be best if he planned on living in a nice basement for the rest of his life.

Sock's boss popped up like a spring. "Then my work here is done!"

"No it's not, you still need to wash the freezer shelves!"

Mephistopheles gestured towards the office with a splutter. "Why do you do this to me every time? This place is practically spotless."

Providence's unimpressed expression caught him through the crack between the door and frame. "If you hadn't tried to burn it down, then maybe I'd let you off the hook."

"That was years ago."

"Nobody's forgotten it, especially the diner. You need to regain its trust."

"It's a _building_."

"It's my favorite building, so get scrubbing."

Jonathan spared a look at Jojo as Mephistopheles groaned his way into the kitchen again. "These are two of the most dangerous people in the country?"

"Yep. Put it in the tabloids. They're actually human." Jojo forced a finger through a loop in her mangled knot, likely desensitized from years of the same exchange. "Annoying humans," she added under her breath.

"You mutter a lot."

"And you talk too much," she shot back. "Just like your boyfriend."

Jonathan had been feeling little regard for his life lately. His mouth was happy to demonstrate. "Why do you hate Sock so much?"

"Why?" She kicked the air harder, almost like she was trying to beat the shit out of it. The rope wrapped around her hand. "He's a dick."

"He said it's because he killed some of your pets."

"Really? And did he say anything else?"

"No."

"Of course not. He likes you. People who know what he's really like would have to be in a loony bin to get so close."

Jonathan scratched at the bandage on his forehead, aiming to comb at his bangs, but pawing at thin air instead. That's right. They were cut off. He picked at his cast instead. "So...?"

"So," she said. "He hurt me. And he's hurt everyone he's ever been close to. He killed his own parents. How can you swap spit with someone like that?"

"I don't care."

She made a grim face at the rope around her hand. "You're just as bad as him. All alone in your dark little garage with your sad cigarettes, not giving a shit about yourself or anyone. He doesn't have to kill you. You're already dead. He loves playing with corpses."

Jonathan stood, pushing against the counter for speed. "You can't say things like that."

"Can't I? Lil told me what he said when he had her all tied up. That she was just in the way. You're in a little bubble that only he's allowed to pop. Just a―"

The metal dug into the vulnerable skin of her throat, a dull utensil turned deadly in anger. He remembered briefly sliding it through the automatic knife sharpener to better scrape burnt bits off the grill with. Now, spatula still soapy from the Hobart, he felt her throat bob beneath the makeshift blade. She met the fire of his gaze with her own, disregarding the metal at her throat. The rope was taut around her hand, fingers purple.

"All alone," she whispered.

He pressed harder.

"You won't do it."

The spatula shook, then lowered. She looked back at the rope again as he fell onto a stool, breathing hard.

"Sock's not like that. He loves me."

She pursed her lips. The door to the office inched shut, trying for inconspicuous. A spot of orange retreated back to the Hobart. He didn't care about whatever spectacle he was making. Some aggressive spatula wielding and hyperventilation. He didn't care.

He didn't care.

Jojo slid him an envelope. "Your last paycheck."

He took it without really feeling the paper. When he pressed against the door and took off into the night he didn't look back. He didn't know anymore. He was confused and panting. Blacksheep might find him and skin him alive or the police might pick him up and force him back to his parents but there was only one thing he knew for sure. One thing he could rely on. He needed Sock. Always needed Sock. What Jojo said couldn't be true. It wasn't true in the collector's cup. It wasn't true in the sugary kisses. It wasn't true in the annoying chatter and nights spent together. It wasn't true when he wanted to dance. It wasn't true in his smile.

He bowled into something soft and warm, something that wrapped an arm around him and made worried noises. Jonathan tried to push away, tried to stumble off the curb and dash across the street in aimless panic, but he recognized the voice.

"You're going to kill me."

"No I won't."

"You said you would."

"I lied."

Jonathan gulped for air. "I kind of want to die, Zack."

The arm tightened. "You'll survive. You're strong."

Somehow they were on a neighborhood bench. Zack's bike gleamed in the dark, an expensive, well-oiled machine. Jonathan tugged at his jacket sleeve, shivering, but not with cold. "I haven't had a smoke for so long."

Zack rustled through one of the pockets of his jacket and produced a lighter. It said Jonathan on the side.

"You kept it?" Jonathan ran a shaky thumb across a scratch through his name, one it suffered from the scuffle with the burning warehouse.

"Yeah. Sorry I haven't got any cigs. Was never much a smoker myself."

The dark hid his face. Jonathan could still see his downturned head and heavy shoulders. There wasn't any of his regular posse around. The arm around his shoulder came with none of his usual strength. It almost seemed to be resting there, draped like he had been over the armchair.

"Where is everyone?"

The hand flopped a bit. "Here and there. I'm nobody important anymore, since I helped a traitor."

"I'm sorry."

Zack shook his head. "Whatever. You shouldn't be out here."

"I need to find Sock." Jonathan began to breathe harder again, hand clenched around the lighter in a death grip. "I need to talk to him. I need―"

"You could do better. You deserve so much better." Zack's hand was at the bandage on his forehead, gentle and kind as it moved in rough but soothing motions. Jonathan could hear the frown, the disapproval. Just like everyone else.

"Don't tell me to leave him."

There was silence. The motions helped. Air was easy again.

"I won't," Zack said finally. Quietly. "I want to but... It's what you want. I wish..."

The motions slowed to a stop and he withdrew his hands completely. Jonathan watched his shadow, having a hard time reconciling the football-huge personality with the mild person on the bench with him. When he had run away, he ran to Zack. He begged to get in. No one wanted him on board. They considered him a soft little suburbs boy. But Zack saw something in him. Jonathan refused steal, but he stole for Zack. Stole to get in, stole to get away. It almost felt good, the grudging grunt of approval. Zack believed in him, Jonathan didn't let him down.

He remembered holding the stolen lambskin jacket out to Zack.

"Look, I did it!"

Four of them had seen him shuffle in the store and waltz out with an item. He'd completed the task, they had to let him in. It was customary that the item be given to the leader overseeing the initiation, but Zack held the jacket, examined the stitching and material, and gave Jonathan a funny look. He handed it back.

"You'll need this," he said. "Out here your skin has to be thick."

On the bench, Jonathan found shadows of the funny look cast by far away streetlamps. Suddenly he understood the awkward conversation and free cigs and frequent bike checkups. The envelope was still in his hand. He crumpled it, eyes wide. Zack cast him a nervous glance.

"I want you to be happy more than I want to be the one that makes you happy." He offered a hand, jaw set like a stone. "I'll bring you to Sock."

The jacket tried to pull him to the ground as he stood. He grabbed the hand, let it help him up. The ride was unmemorable, a flash of streetlights. He didn't need to ask why he knew where Sock was. Didn't need to say anything.

The diner was a dark blemish next door, they were back at the garage. There was a light on inside. The side door was open. Sock sat on the step, back alight with the glaring industrial light installed in the garage, cut down the middle with gray and white like some film noir. There was no bandage on his head. He watched them approach with dead eyes and made no reaction when Zack gave a little warning glare. Jonathan slid onto the pavement.

He fumbled with the zipper and slipped out of the jacket. The tanned hide was soft and supple, scuffed and shiny at the cuffs and elbows. It frayed near some seams. He'd never had to patch it or worry much at all. It was strong. Armor, almost. He folded it up neatly as he could with one hand and pushed it toward Zack.

"Here."

Zack's knuckles whitened on the handlebars. "It's yours."

"I'm not Blacksheep anymore. You should take it." Jonathan nudged it forward. Zack shook his head. "_Zack_."

"Fine." Zack prised his claws off the bars and clutched the jacket to his stomach. "Fine..."

Jonathan expected him to leave, to motor off on a cloud of sore resentment. He clenched a hand, licked his lips, waited. The bike stayed stationary. A mount still sturdy under the weight of a silent rider. Zack hunched over the jacket like it pierced him.

"I'm sorry," Jonathan offered.

"No. I'm sorry." Zack straightened, kicked up his stand. The bike started with an uncanny purr. Zack took with him the break in eye contact between him and Sock.

Sock searched Jonathan's face. "I hear you've talked to Jojo."

Jonathan approached slowly, fought with himself, and then sat on the diner's back step, facing Sock. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

Sock held up a small plastic baggie. Some crushed leaves stuck to the insides. He shook his head at Jonathan's expression. "It's catnip, actually. She knows where I've been now: in her backyard. She's toying with me."

The bag fluttered through the air in a scuppered throw and landed at the edges of the overflow from the dumpster. True to its function it attracted a pair of gleaming eyes from the depths of the alley, but they didn't stay long. Sock stared at his shoes like he was awaiting harsh words. Jonathan wasn't sure where to begin, but it wasn't going to be there.

"You tried to kill Lil."

"Yeah."

"And you almost got killed doing it. I almost got killed." Jonathan put a steadying hand on his forehead. "Indirectly, dozens of people almost got killed."

"Mephistopheles and Providence can get a bit drastic."

A smile tugged at his lip, quickly killed. "Why, Sock?"

He clutched at his ear flaps, tugging them down, trying to hide his face. "I don't know, Jonathan. Why did you leave?"

"I didn't know I was leaving. You didn't tell me." Jonathan rubbed at the back of his head, looking at the ground too. "I thought maybe you'd like some time away from me. And I was making money to pay you back."

"I've already told you, I don't want you to pay me back."

"I know. It just feels like... stealing."

Sock made a sad, almost amused noise. "What is it with you and stealing? Why do you feel like you owe everyone something?"

"I don't feel like that, I just know when I need to return a favor."

A frustrated release of breath. "You're so good..."

Jonathan stared at Sock's bowed head. That was unexpected. But they were getting off track.

"Jojo said―"

"_'Jojo said_,'" Sock growled. "Why are you listening to her? She just wants to get to you because it'll hurt me."

"I didn't listen to her. I stood up for you, I shut her up." Ignoring the part where he ran away crying. "I've just been thinking. Some of the stuff she said was kinda close to home."

"Yeah, about what? She said I'm a horrible person and you're nuts for sticking around? I've heard everything she's had to say a hundred times before. Why are you so upset now? Nothing ever bothered you before."

"You didn't try to kill my friends before."

"You didn't have any friends before!"

_You're all alone_. Just like Jojo said. Jonathan winced at the asphalt. When he looked up Sock's hands pulled at the ears of his hat and he spared quick glances from his shoes to try to make out Jonathan's expression. He knew he had said the wrong thing. Jonathan ground his teeth.

"Really, Sock, why do you do these things?"

"I don't know..."

"How can you not know?"

Sock tried to merge with the step, but the concrete stayed unfortunately whole. "I try not to think about it."

"Well think about it," Jonathan demanded, "and try to convince me that I should still try for you."

Sock's eyes widened and he leaned away. "Are you saying you want to... break up?"

Jonathan just watched Sock's face, allowed his silence to do all the talking. He clutched at the cuffs of his hoodie again. There wasn't going to be any more skirting around things. If Sock wanted them to continue, he had to say something. Anything, for fuck's sake. Because almost killing his only friend was a pretty huge fuckup. One that Jonathan wasn't just going to let slide. His stomach dropped as he realized: this was something people who cared did.

Who was he kidding? Nobody but himself.

He did care. About Sock, at least. Then Lil and his job. His sister, always. He absently fingered his pocket, found the edge of the check and brushed it between his fingers. Last but not least, it seemed like he was stuck caring about himself.

"You're not coming back, are you?"

There would be no smiles tonight. "I told Jojo I would move. And the Blacksheep have it out for me. It's best that I go anyway. There's nothing left for me here." He pretended not to see Sock's face. "What were you doing in the garage?"

Sock bit his lip and scurried inside. He returned with the blanket Jonathan had bought with his first paycheck. It made a staticky crinkling sound as he shook it out once he was seated again. His cheeks reddened.

"I, um... We never got to use it. I was just sitting." He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and sighed a heavy cloud. "Waiting."

"What? For how long?" Funny, they'd both done the same thing.

Sock shrugged, chin hiding in the blanket, staring at the ground.

"I remember I couldn't get rid of you at first."

"I lost you sometimes. You always came back here. I just had to wait and I'd see you again. But you aren't coming back anymore." His face sunk deeper into the cloth. "Everything ends eventually."

Jonathan made a few aborted movements to stand. Sock was so pathetic, dwarfed by the blanket with a downturned gaze. He took a breath, steeled himself, and flexed his fingers to try to regain some feeling after clutching his sleeves in the cold for so long. The cement beside Sock was freezing. Eyes peeped out of the blanket, then it opened in a tentative offer of warmth. Jonathan leaned in and took it.

"I guess I understand, if you leave," Sock said once they were both wrapped up. "I'm kinda hard to deal with sometimes. I know you're angry and this probably won't mean much, but I'm sorry."

Jonathan closed his eyes, because he couldn't say it was okay that Sock tried to off his first true friend in place of real communication, but he appreciated that Sock realized his error. They sat there quietly for a little while. Sock's fiddly hands jerked a few times and Jonathan entwined their fingers over his cast to still them. There were some sniffles, sneezes. Lilac and smoke clung to his clothes. The sky began to turn from black to gray. A night bus cruised by.

"Would you finish the job if I left?"

Sock shook his head. "I thought I would in the beginning, but now I don't want to. You wouldn't be fun to kill."

"Well that's a relief." Jonathan released a harsh puff of laughter. "There's a way to deal with things without killing, you know."

"I've never tried it before."

"I could try showing you."

He shrugged. "Nothing works. It's like your smoking. I love it, but it's probably not good for me."

Jonathan squeezed his hands and refrained from telling him that he hadn't smoked in a longer while than he would have liked. It didn't seem as bad as before, though. Maybe if he could help himself, he could work things out with Sock too.

"We're pretty messed up."

"Yeah."

"Promise me you'll say something next time?"

"Promise."

The package wasn't fancy, just brown paper and tape. This was his last paycheck. It was heavy, heavier than the glass had been. He hadn't known exactly what he wanted to buy, but the shopkeeper had been quiet and calm and led him to the right case and the right brand and the right type. It might have been because of Jonathan's filmy voice or the stark white bandage on his head or the way he occasionally stumbled and smacked his cast against a display. What a mess of a boy.

He didn't know where to find him. The police station would likely be an unwise place to bring it, seeing how Mephistopheles had an act to keep up. He couldn't think of anywhere. So when the clock struck five, he found himself at the dance club.

Ashes poofed up around his sneakers as he walked. It was a crazy thing to think. Who would linger here? A soft smile lead to a sigh when he saw a crooked purple tail and fluttering scarf. Who indeed...

Sock hopped into his space, wary, didn't dare touch. "Jonathan!"

"What are you doing here, Sock?"

He crossed his arms, finally sheltered from the fall cold with long sleeves. "I was gonna ask you the same thing."

"I have something."

"What?"

Jonathan held out the package, dropped it into Sock's outstretched hands. Careful. "It's for you."

The paper tore like, well, paper. With a few satisfying rips. Discarded in the wreckage. It was trapped inside an impossible plastic case, the kind that would draw blood before giving up its prize. Sock held it with no expression. Jonathan shuffled, nervous.

"I hope it's the right kind. You lost yours in the fire, right?"

"Why did you get this?"

"To pay you back," Jonathan said. "For the glass."

"Where is the glass?"

He looked at his shoes. "Broken. Gone. I couldn't get it back."

Slowly, Sock brought it to his chest, crossed his arms over it, and looked at his shoes too. A singed newspaper fluttered between them. _Escalating gang violence_, declared the front page.

"I wish we could go back," Sock admitted in the silence.

That would be nice, reliving the warm days, the good days. But that time was done. Their glory days were over. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, kind of literally.

"We can't. But we can start over."

"That'd be okay."

Jonathan steeled his spine, ground a heel into the newspaper and cinders as he crossed the space between them. He drew Sock into a hug, leaned into him and said it was more than okay. The sun set behind a wall of the ruins and cold descended down his back. Sock sneezed. He still wasn't dressed warm enough. Silly.

"You smell like flowers, but not smoke."

"I've quit." Jonathan answered the unsaid question with only a tiny tang of bitterness. Caitie was a health-fanatic and an older sister all in one. A deadly combination.

The body in his arms heaved and shook. Jonathan tightened his grip. His worried frown became a hard-pressed when he realized Sock was laughing. Heat ate up his cheeks.

"What's so funny?"

"If I knew you had a sister," Sock wheezed, "I would have looked for her a long time ago. Nobody can make Jonathan the Great do anything, not even me, but your sister has got you on a string. I guess I'll let her be in charge of pushing you around."

Jonathan tugged the ears of Sock's hat so that it nearly covered his face, unable to dispute what he'd said and seeking retribution for his blessed, cheeky grin. He really would put the sun out of business. That would be okay.

"I'm not so great."

"No, you're the greatest. You're good. You're my Jonathan and my Jonathan's great." Sock pushed into his chest, closer to his heart. He breathed a sigh, somber again. "Thank you for the knife. I'm sorry."

Jonathan merely hummed.

"So when do we start." Sock gazed up at him, eyes alight, radiating excitement like a potbelly stove. No wonder he never seemed cold.

"As soon as I do something for Lil. And for me."

The stop was situated at a crossroads in the neighborhood. It was empty when he got there. He stared straight ahead, fists clenching and unclenching. Once or twice a foot twitched with the urge to run. But he wasn't running anymore. Instead he tightened the strap across his chest, grim as a man on the frontlines.

She showed up mere minutes before the bus, eyes dull and headphones blasting. At first she didn't pay him any mind. Just popped her gum and looked straight ahead too. But as the bus approached she spared him a disinterested glance that quickly turned bug eyed and deadly when she choked on her gum.

He extended his arms to offer help. "Whoa. Are you okay?"

Lil got ahold of herself and swallowed it in a huge gulp. "Jonathan?!"

"Yeah."

"What are you doing here?"

He gestured to the bus just down the street. "Going to school. Like you."

"But you're a―"

"―a dropout? Not anymore."

His sister had been adamant. Not about him returning to school, but that he live with her. She wanted him "off the streets" and didn't listen when he told her he was never on the streets anyway, he had the garage. He didn't like the sad look she cast him, like he was missing something obvious. If he slept on a park bench that night, it wasn't to get at her. No way. He just wanted one last taste of freedom, of being a man on his own.

Showing up today had been his own decision. He was late in the semester, but the lady he'd talked with had some paperwork and a weird note from the Chief of Police that made her very willing to work something out.

"Oh!" Jonathan stuck a hand in his hoodie pocket and offered his find to Lil. "Your cellphone."

She took it, eyebrows raised. "So you had it. It looks like shit." Lil glanced behind him, suddenly jumpy. "That kid Sock isn't here is he?"

"No."

"He tried to kill me."

"I know. And he's sorry."

"Sorry's not enough."

Jonathan looked at the ground as the bus pulled to a halt. "We know."

Lil was quick to hop inside once the door was open. Jonathan took a minute. Looked hard the white stripes on the steps, the bits of candy wrappers strewn across the floor. The bus driver rose an eyebrow.

"Are you coming?"

Lil peered at him out one of the windows, face mashed against the glass like a kid at the zoo. Someone tugged her ponytail and she shushed them. He bit his lip. This was it.

Lil mouthed a small scream and he looked over his shoulder, offering a smile and a wave. Sock hopped out of the car on the street behind him and drew Jonathan a crushing hug. His boss leaned out the driver's window and gave a wink. Jonathan tugged on the ear flaps of Sock's hat and playfully pushed him away, making for the steps.

"I'll see you tonight, I promise," he called over his shoulder.

He took the seat in front of Lil, who was plastered against the window in some mixture of horror and awe.

"Isn't that the Chief of Police? What's he doing with a criminal?"

A sardonic grin. "The world's a strange place."

The bus's acceleration was loud, but he was accustomed to artificially amplified bike motors. His window was open. He watched Sock return to Mephistopheles's car and heard the Chief say something strange, even for them.

"Isn't he a little young for you?"

* * *

If you liked it, please leave a review or favorite it (or leave a Kudos or comment on AO3). It lends me encouragement to make more stuff. Thanks so much for the read, guys!


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